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Autumnal I wonder if we will ever be lovers; stones and barnacles, the last wash of sea foam, a sailor, a dove, a hymn for us lost at sea i want to know what the lines in your palms mean the deepened, healed over scars, an adventure-accident or just a handful of carelessness. you are mirrors and most things, sometimes I think you are just tugging on my limbs and arms, to play a game inside lips with the secrets hidden inside a lost letter, or just an old boat to cast out a time for fleeting and legs, that will rub together in the mornings.