The flakes of your love keep landing on my bare skin and dissolving before I can collate them. Two clutches I’ve salvaged are already turning to dirty slush in my hot, sweaty hands. I want more, so I can patchwork it all into some monstrous tribute to/cheap clone of you. Build a screwed up, Calvin-and-Hobbesque snowman of you. But it is late Spring, it has long stopped snowing, and everyone but me is done with the cold.
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