Feel your bony hand in mine, waste away, waste the day, cuddled on a couch with an arm around a waist and a guitar sitting on the seat close by. We've got a little one-bedroom shack; drafts come in through cracks, but all the quilts keep us warm, so it's okay. You don't cut your hair, you smell like me and you; I smell the same, too. Indie, artsy, Tacoma, lazy. I don't want anything but your bony hand in mine.
This is my sub-sublime fantasy; simplicity.
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