can't wake up from a silent curve
since your stubbornly hip coconut dream
waves lapped in hood style against backyard cement that you
drum, drip, drink
me and my open milk
lungs in the slang of your car
like all those slow smoke pulls
shelled with bloody lips and remember when you said
you'd rather cut your eyes open
than to never
kiss me again.
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Oh, you'll have your coconut milk.
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