deepundergroundpoetry.com
Sunday Morning
Your sweet nothings vibrate
like your many dispositions.
You set the table, pour the coffee,
I light the cigarette in your mouth
and lean over to say This must be a dream
before you stop me and respond
Yes, I already know its real.
like your many dispositions.
You set the table, pour the coffee,
I light the cigarette in your mouth
and lean over to say This must be a dream
before you stop me and respond
Yes, I already know its real.
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