| Somewhere my body holds the memory of our tactile poetry
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| All those sonnets, sketched in finger-paints, the songs of you and me
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| How our skin hummed, electric, sparked like wires in the rain
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| That drenched us dueling fierce and hungry, until we both lay slain
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| I have it all up here, this dusty library in my head
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| Through its windows, snow blankets the garden of our bed
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| Well, if you gave me soap and penknife I could reinvent the wheel
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| But I can’t carve a life-size replica of just how good it feels
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| To have known a fraction of you for a fraction of the time
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| That we spent stripping back the molds we somehow thought were yours and mine
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| And the future sits, like stone blocks, under dustsheets in our hearts
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| Waiting, just to be uncovered, and for chiseling to start
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| Well, people have a name for it since Newton’s apple fell
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| You hold our love like a fallen apple, my hands shake, like William Tell |