A hand slips from a loose grip.
In a feild of mud and roses.
The sun rises over a grey horizon
and I can only see the shape of your back against the light.

Don't leave me this far behind,
with a spoon and a cough drop
tucked inside my jacket pocket, because if the ground was to split like a
pair of mud glossed lips and swallow you up to your neck in the wet earth, I
might not have time to dig you out.

after all, I've only got a spoon and a couch drop.
 
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