Traced in a wet sand her name in perfect cursive.
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A love letter to the crescent moon.
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By tommorrow it will be gone I told her.
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There is no tommorrow she said.
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I can feel her in a bikini of coiled snakes dancing into the hiss of the wind.
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Postcards from a paradise in flames.
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She used to be so right.
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So right about everything.
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Hyperviolet
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| Pig Destroyer |
