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left on butter

She left the room.
She left her bread.
Her breakfast all done.
But not held.
Made all with butter and eggs with the sunny side on top.
The tea was ready.
Herbals dancing.
I took a cup.
Dancing in my tummy.
I was asking.
Now I wonder.
No help for lovers.

I start my day with a soft-boiled egg.
Looking sad to the sunny one beside.
Because it was left.
Left alone.
Left on butter.
Left on bread.
I am fine.
See yo later.
What she said.
Looking for the keys.
For the bike of her lover boy.
Now I wonder, she wants to drive?
No help for lovers.

She still cried.

I hope she is alright.
Letting making her inside bright.
Again to see the sun.
Is not only on her lonesome bread.
That is what I said.
It is outside.
Coming from the sky.
Whispering good morning.
But why should mornings.
Those lovely mornings.
Those sad and unhappy mornings.
All be good?
They can’t be always good.
Some say only „Morning“.
Is that the cause.
And I wonder.
No help for lovers.

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