The blue rivers of my veins
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The trace of blades on yours
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You don't hang anything on the wind's skin
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What's a Sunday to the ocean?
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Under the worn-down city light
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On my blue skin the night rolls by
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Scrape my lips on weekends
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The blue rivers of my veins
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Time's trace on yours
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like a match burnt out by the future
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As far as the red lights burn
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Outside it's clean, there's nothing moving
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You dream of dust whiter than the sky
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To detach the shadow beneath your soles