my head thinks about the coastline,
and the days i should be spending along the boston harbour.
there are thoughts of that poem,
the one where your tits rested perfectly on the windowsill.
and then, somewhere between "i killed myself when i was 5"
and the myriad of books i never read,
i find myself anywhere i want to be.
the boats in the rhine river are no match for her.
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