I'll probably write about you. God knows, I'm thinking about you. You're almost perfect. So flawed. Not even beautiful, but I don't need that. Your lips meet mine in an electric blur, your hand on my throat. Your tongue on me neck.
You tell me your blues. You were a junkie. Crack and brown. You've still got all your teeth. You still look good. You use to be a junkie. That addiction still sits in your soul. That all encompassing desire for more. I'll give you more. I'll feed you. I'll shoot you up. I'll become irreplaceable. I could be everything for you. I could be everything. I feel so fucking powerful. Chase me.
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