The most obvious answer

to every every storm is once again.

Fuck yourself is all I can manage.
I may choose other words,
and you should tell me the same,
but don’t you tell me you love me.

Why rush to implications.
Why cheapen the moment
with a saving grace to what’s
already assured.
I need to feel appreciated.
My force must be recognised,
It must be real.

You know Arnold Palmer’s pink tea?
He drinks a glass of himself on every can.



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