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Frigid Stiff
Ours was of calculated countenances
Never expressive.
They say the eyes tell it all,
All ours had was ayes and nays.– Pretty please.
Ours was of typos erased,
No sentence was of freehand,
No expressions came of freewill,
Every moment was premeditated.– Walking the thread, walking dead.
It was a say cheese photograph
No smile was just a smile.
So now that they say our love is dead,
It’s ironic to say that of something that never had any life in it.
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