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I am running out of new things to say

I realise that (and if you too notice carefully),

All my words have been said.

I only edit older thoughts,

Feigning to touch a new sadness sometimes

Tell you, for example:

"My dreams are grey-blue instead of blue-grey today",

"My sunsets are a little less orange"

You sometimes really believe 

That I'm growing sadder and tenderer

Look into my eyes deeply,

Suddenly kiss my first strand of gray hair.