Raleigh: You don't love me anymore, do you?
Margot: I do, kind of. I can't explain right now.
Growing here, a rusting garden of wild ellipses
Exponential decay is coming up roses
Pear tree branches, olive tree branches
We could have been pastoral, if it weren't for all the blood
I slammed on the brakes of my soul
On the freeway of your burning chest, your old shirt
You still smell like three kinds of hard work, and
One singular desperation
My face, the placement of my face
American Sign Language for
I trust you
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