Likely Love

That feel of your hand in mine,
fingers slipping through fingers,
cold against hot,
gloves or no gloves,
where I cannot remember
the taste of your lips,
except in fragments
of certain songs.

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About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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