Loved you once, or twice.
Exploring your world and the space that expanded,
behind your tounge with the touch of the one I own.
Touching the swell of that body, or staring across the blank,
space in pictures where you were and met.
I loved you once or twice.
Reading made up stories,
pretending I knew you.
Webbing delicate tales and [fake] memories
inside the empty space,
expanded world in my head.
Not real, not enough.
Unless you're only playing.
Unless you're only swaying and pretending to be.
But you're not.
You fell webbed into my expansion of silk world,
like I wanted you there.
Defenseless.
Believing everything that spilled out of the tip of my tounge
just because I said.
And everytime I touched you...
I asked myself,
why did I loved you not once but, twice?
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