287 days of colour.

The blood, the bullet, the scars.

The hair, the words and death.

The noise, the bass and zero.

The angel, the drawn, faith.

The matching luggage, the safety in numbers.

Listen to the sound I spill.

Listen to my quill and the tale it tells

every time I try to make you drop me

a wit, a nod, a smile

that I’ll hold to with bare skin.

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