i kiss your knees as you go swimming, i count your shapes when they have gone. Maybe a deep desperate desperado want. i keep it. like i want to own it. you, as much un-ownable as any or ever. when when i guess. win win. work at eleven, oh! and how the old becomes new and you'd known it all along like a sour apple toothpick you once sold as a kid amongst the others back in seventh, half way finding a good way to be although constantly worried and vastly disoriented but we almost always are, i guess. the aurors, i mean. the tiny saviors who've got no place to be.