Give me inches and perpetuate this moment - ardor filled, heart spilled, fired blown and fragile still. 'Cause I'll be gone soon - chasing the afternoon, like a hand in the wind on the highway - the road to far away, where I feel close. The hawser bend becoming loose, and breaking when I pass thirty times one hundred. There'll be no panarama view for you, do we end? 'Cause I'll be studying, and thinking, and searching for irony and I don't know if I'll want to come home. I'm an-alphabetic yet poetic. Esprit and dedicated to my cause. Is that enough? Am I making all this up? There's months till that moment comes - the one where I'm packed tight and the door slams shut. And you're the little figure growing smaller instead of bigger in the rear window of my life.
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