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for s and what might have been. this is the way the story ends.

When I was still in love
I wrote you a story on my southbound plane
of dew and sun and truth in rum,
of whiskey blue sun afternoons
and suitabilities made in threes.

Well when I was in love
or thought I'd write you a story
I thought of knives, I thought of necks:
your eyes were glinting, your lips were golden,
to no gods or men we'd be beholden.

But my friends, my friends have sledgehammers,
your friends, your friends would flinch.
my friends, my friends have bellwethers,
they've whiskey, words, and afternoons,
a love that lasts beyond the sky.

No planes fly south, and I am north,
with no love of stories, knives or neckties.
My eyes are glinting, my lips are golden:
to no gods or men I am beholden.

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