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When he moves |
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I watch him from behind |
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He turns and laughter flickers in his eyes |
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Intent and direct when he speaks |
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I watch his lips |
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When he drives |
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I love to watch his hands |
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White and smooth almost feminine |
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Almost American |
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I have to watch him |
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In his face age descends on youth |
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Exaggeration on the truth |
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He caught me looking then but soon his eyes forgot |
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And everything he seems to do |
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Reflects just another shade of blue |
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I saw her searching into you and ached a while |
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I watch his lips caress the glass |
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His fingers stroke its stem and pass |
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To lift a cigarette at last |
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He dries his eyes |
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From the shadows by the stair |
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I watch as he weeps unaware |
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That I'm in awe of his despair |