There's always a girl at the front door,
ringing the doorbell at 3am with her
face wrinkled, upset, clenching the dark words
inside her with her white-knuckled fists. And before
I ever open myself to her, I
already know she'll end up sleeping in
my bed. Before I can ever reason
"why?", I know we'll hammer out the compromised
problems with hard sex and the after-shock
that clouds them in oblivion. And she'll
whisper as if after a baptism, "Don't you
think there's still a chance to reclaim
our innocence?" And I'll leave my heart concealed
and hold her, as if trying to hold the truth.
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