Her face permitted him just one touch; for every time, the closer they came to some kind, any kind of a freedom, it needed to be just this way
Fleeting to a mesmerising, fair mind-boggling point of drafted devotee resilience
These brilliant and more oft than not weather-torn fingers longing to breathe of their own accord, whilst putting his enemies to the metaphorical sword
For it would be a rifle every other evening, ’til getting to take his bedraggled everything right the whole way into the very next supposedly precious cold coffee-swilling morning
When these brothers-in-arms swarm about a jaded Sergeant’s handful of dog-eared letters
Every time he will try and step on into his soul serene
“Where have you been?” He will say

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