We would talk for hours into the midnight navy
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Of frosted sprinkles and banana moons
Three hundred eighty-four thousand four hundred maybe
Showing us the way with the patterned blues.
We’d speak of the flowers and how fine they are
We’d speak of the many new days we have had
Though so far yet so close like a crimson star
We’d speak of grey days both the good and the bad.
So now we look on to the meaning of “save me”
When the fluff in the sky turns yellow afternoons
Into goodnight dreams of sane gone crazy
I know we both love red roses in bloom.