The ocean water that washed my feet left sand everywhere,
The lunch I cooked for myself, a pile of dirty dishes.
The poem I wrote left ink blotches all over my hands,
The home I made, a blanket of dust to sweep.
Losing my heart left a hole in the place where it should've been.
The lunch I cooked for myself, a pile of dirty dishes.
The poem I wrote left ink blotches all over my hands,
The home I made, a blanket of dust to sweep.
Losing my heart left a hole in the place where it should've been.
This is nice
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