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Sangria

This isn’t the wine talking, I swear it isn’t the wine talking; I just wanted to tell you how Goddamn gorgeous I find your eyes. Did you know I’d say your eyes? Your deep, brown eyes? Something tells me probably not. Your brain lives in the sewers, we both know that.

But maybe I didn’t just mean your eyes. Surprising, right? I mean, look at yourself, I know I do…

There I go, getting off topic.  Maybe, maybe on topic? On you… Oh that’s just perfect.

But I swear this isn’t the wine talking. No, of course it’s not the wine talking…

This is my brain thinking, my lips moving. Tongue wagging. Won’t yours join?

But no, this isn’t the wine talking. Of course not. How could you think that?

Then again, maybe it is. You know I’d never say this to you. But then, there’s that time, after we broke up… We had no need for covers then, did we?

Oh but then there my mind goes, as per usual… And it’s not in the sewers where it usually resides. No, it’s up in the clouds, in the past. If only that weren’t its favorite spot to lounge in.

But I miss your chest. How odd is that? I miss your chest hair, even. I miss your skin. I miss laying with you and just being able to feel you. This is nostalgia. It kind of sucks, wouldn’t you know.

You know what also sucks? Not being with you.

Come back. Fuck it. I’d still take you back.

I still Goddamn, motherfuckin’ love you.

And I miss you because of it.

I swear this isn’t the wine talking.

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