hands rest in my pockets,
My hood up, Ipod blares,
aviators cover my sockets,
I hear a clap on the concrete,
As my eyes follow my shoes,
I move in slow motion,
Without a doubt I have the blues,
I try to think of good things,
movies, sports, and food,
It works not though,
Where I am those seem crude,
Nothing works to break me out,
She will not leave my mind,
Even in this state,
I still consider her a great find.
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