Of course, your songs in their bright red melodious coats I jump into the pocket where your right hand goes, play with your fingers like they're my own private army of clutches.
I do not know which doctor it was, but it must have been one, who plucked out both my eyes and sewed them to your tongue so all I could see when you opened your mouth was daylight
moving across your lips. This same surgeon, I believe, must have been made of miracles for he managed to clip my ears to the insides of your cheeks like two pink wings.
A few tender beats in the wind of your breath and I could, if I wanted, unleash the bird in your throat.
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