She a real painter's sunrise, done up in cherry smoke and brush stroke. I draw her in my mind like she's always been here and I haven't -- a thousand lines like chinese print signs, banners screaming out in the night:
"Why god, can't I fit my hands around you
Why can't we make what's come and gone, what's been so wrong
makes its rounds like opium come to put it right?" 

Instead, I'll be a st...

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