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Figs on your lips; a ripe philosophy for mine to taste, learn, and become my intuition, my home filled with the fragrance of rain.
Tell me who we are in dreary orchards when dusky heavens are bluer than your eyes and you spit out fruit seeds. Tell me before night comes and our stars part with my legs in your lap.
Does this almost love make us poets?
Figs on my lips; a hypnosis for you to consume dream about and become your water lily, your tender light, among tropical plants, guiding you to your own light.
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