Ours was of calculated countenances
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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