The world was sick.
The car got crowded but no one would sit next to him.
He's not sick, he got alcohol poisoning.
Something she'd been trying to deny.
Bitting down on the base of her lip she knew these bricks were too personal,
never showing how heavy they equal to be.
Especially the fractured ones.
Officials denied the existence.
On a tuesday in the summer she tried to paint.
Instead she follows the firetruck.
Trying to set fire to those bricks.
Turning pale, these bricks show more color than you and I.
Those bricks are tied to roses that hang upside down
reminding you of names you miss.
She told these bricks to be patient,
they split anyways.
Only burning the tips of my fingers on those bricks while extracting you from the fire.
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