I know what makes your skin shake, and those words aren't it; soft kisses annoy you, but she doesn't know that; dry wits get your humor while wet ones fail; and maybe they know about your views of redemption and hell, but was murder ever pillow talk for one of them?
Forgive the smallness of a small world. I know you better than you know yourself. But maybe only partly, and inside, not out. Because I can make you cry, but the tears don't fall; they just fill your words. Threaten to break.
You know.
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