Night number one and you waited it out with me.
You hugged me with that empty glass bottle,
breaking my ribs enough to let cords of midnight navy out.
The Katyn Forest Massacre is waiting in the morning for me,
fought only with the bluest of inksticks. Graphite but really grafight.
The meta of Maurice,
the epoche of the Indentured,
and if I look at you too long, I will surely stop working.
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