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Updated: Oct 17, 2021

a poem, by Douglas Wadsworth


Rinsed, just a little bit squeezed

My body feels a little tighter,

Her hands twist the attention out of me.

Read me,

You said you could, so read me out-loud in your thoughts and tell me what I'm doing here.

You, stop me from waiting,

Im waiting, a little more than should have, but just waiting only that.

I’m firing a gun through a window.

I can see the impression it leaves with you, but why would it?

Why because when have you ever seen that.

And what’s the point in a window…

I didn't know anything about luck until I met you.


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