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My Wife, the Arsonist
I have a tendency to start fires when my hands get cold
I don’t lose any sleep
Because my fingers feel so warm against my face
While I’m burning sheep
I used to hate how that cigarette accentuated your lips
Now I’m the one with smoke between my finger tips
In a dream state, like Arizona, when your throat is parched
I dance with gasoline
And keep a set of matches in my pocket for persuasion
Now what were you saying?
Lean closer to the flames
And kiss me when I exhale your name
If you walk away, I’ll drop this match
And set the whole city ablaze
Unless you can douse the innocent
I suggest that you stay
The smokestacks smoldered the bad news
With the stench of frustration, just like I did to you
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