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Post by Ivan Carswell on Dec 12, 2007 6:10:41 GMT -5
Being seventeen – just shy a year of when meaning takes a thin view of past eras, of growing pains, of vaster distances than the eye spans easily. Being seventeen in clothes made today to wear today; no copies of this hair persuaded of the coiffure of the street, in the colours of the stars, in the shimmer of the air where each one stares at this body being seventeen, at this person being me. Tell me that you care and give to me those glances aching with the craving evident in eyes despair, seeing me being seventeen, agreeing and wishing you where there. © 11 December 2007, I. D. Carswell
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