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Come sleep with me:
We won’t make Love
Love will make us.
We are all differently broken, semi-functional, rusted out love machines.
Come clean with a child heart
Laugh as peaches in the summer wind
Let rain on a house roof be a song
Let the writing on your face
be a smell of apple orchards in late June.
Happiness is pretty simple: someone to love, something to do, something to look forward to.
Rita Mae Brown