We only speak through these machines.
Bending blades of grass,
cutting rings into trees.
I drag myself from this bed we've made,
our warmth has escaped.
I know these fronts will change.
Old Capitals
My Heart To Joy
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We only speak through these machines.
Bending blades of grass,
cutting rings into trees.
I drag myself from this bed we've made,
our warmth has escaped.
I know these fronts will change.