Getting Used To Standing Alone

Your words brush over me like a breeze that makes me aware of the sharpness of my cheekbones. Cutting the air, making it drift across my hair, in streamers of blood salted sea air. You hold me up as I cough..well, this is awkward. And you say, so let’s be awkward together. Let’s place our barriers close to home. This

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Back in Stockholm

Your heart is a barren wasteland. It’s where dreams go to die and hopes that have a masochist side to them hang around your mind waiting to be strangled while you polish your tools try to choose between condescension, cynicism and the old faithful – indifference. You must be a collector. A connoisseur of dampened aspiration Purveyor of wounded emotion

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