57 lines
2.1 KiB
Plaintext
57 lines
2.1 KiB
Plaintext
Mighty Illicit Liquid Kollections is back online for one farewell issue for
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all of those who didn't know about the end of MiLK... MiLK is dead, that is
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all.
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I No Longer Hear The Woman-Spirit In The Tree by M.C. Dillon
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I never could take a hint, wheather for
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good or bad, so don't be cross with me, for
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not once did I intend to make you feel
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uncomfortable or act rude or at all
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unpleasant. Maybe, maybe I tried too
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hard to endear myself to you. But then
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I realize it will not make any kind
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of difference three shrot years from today
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if you counted me as a friend in the scheme
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of you relationships, and you looked for
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me after graduation so you could
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tell me goodbye forever; we both know
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I'm not what you want, that no matter what
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I do, all you can ever giveos is a
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trite conversation or a brief, insincere
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"thank you" dropped like a bottle rolling off
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a bar that tumbles and wakes a bum from
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grand visions, as your drunken words awake
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me from the dreams I had of holding you
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in that first precious bloom of love that grows
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and fixes itself as a gentle and
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sweet period in otherwise a lame,
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absurdly tragic and strange pattern of
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hoped-for relationships that have not
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and never will come to fruition, but
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rather wither and die like my words you
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find sickly sweet, all in hope that I could
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change your heart, make you what you aren't, and
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that you could quicken me, and cheat the bleak
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fate that alarmingly becomes more clear
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and more apparent with each passing day,
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that I have been eternally cursed as
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rude, akward, and overbearing, like a
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ton of sand: not only smothering but
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removed and shaken and washed off when the
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acceptance of day is gone and it is time
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to change to clothes more suitible for the night,
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as you exchange me as the summer nears.
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So go then, I shall not pursue; I'm done
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with questing and with chasing after your
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sweet little solar systems of friends, so
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do not concern yourself with the fear that
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I might fall into orbit or disturb
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and bother you, even so little that you
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might be the first to wave as we pass by.
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irony's pretty ironic sometimes, eh jamesy?
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