Dove white is not warm; 
I am skulled, I am torn. 
A scorn is all that’s born 
From those paper freckles. 
A love that won’t falter, 
Dead weighted, a pinned alter. 
It alters: I falter 
At the sound of your lips. 
The flowers have died. 
The Woman in White’s clearly lied 
A mother sighed. Hearts coincide. 
And I am not warm 
“I object.”

it ain’t over till it’s over
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