Love feeds slowly from the hand of a thousand western towns, and when we pull off our clothes, it is in remembered beds. Words happen to me then, when the restriction of my body is lifted away from your brown hills and the day does not rise until I tell it to. It will never rise, quick-breathing and clear, until I demand it. If you rise with me, laughing and singing in the joy of my words, then you understand I do not care that you have loved others, I only care that these sounds come to your ears' oceans like new silver or like the wind painting umbered fields with its guitar.
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Warren Wedin email@example.com