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A skyline of photographs,
shadows on your wall.
And I am not among them,
the skyscrapers of your past.
Circumstance has aged you,
scratched and bitten away.
Your beauty like a drop of rain
lost in sunny skies.

How I haunt this empty night
disappearing inside of you.
I'm the fog that will not lift,
stubbornly halting plans.
Like the machetes in the corner,
your innocence cuts me open.
Slices through my hesitation,
my warlord is my slave.

I've begged for this deception,
trained you to take me over.
Resting on the smooth, cold altar,
I ask for it to hurt.
I ask that it be real.
The skyline vanishes with morning light
and so does passion fade.
The past, the others, still a memory
as construction I begin.

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