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Tonight my fingers are cold,
the window closed but the air-vents are open on the seventh floor.
All but one finger freezes, the one I have a paper cut on.
The one you lent me a band-aid to cover.
The one you pretended to be worried with me about.
The one that reminds me of you every single time I glance down at it.
I sit now at my desk,
hoping to have graced your thoughts at least once,
whilst my fingers freeze.
a/m-i
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