when the story is about love and trapped as boots in wool closets so overtaken as a drunken man at santino's death

when i hear words, written, soon to be, about you, in my head
there's great costumed choirs stretching a thousand yards, more.
arms high as heaven and they're all,
every last child, man and woman of them,

in need of you the way i am,
and taking the breaths they'd saved for days off and lovemaking to tell you how i feel.

some days are simpler than ghosts.

2003-11-20 | 6:57 p.m.
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