It's always 3 am somewhere.
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It's not that I don't know what you do to me. There's no doubt, no confusion, no misunderstanding. I know what buttons you're pushing, what holes in my head you so neatly fill, what pieces of my fucked-up psyche you appeal to. What, how, I know all that.
I just wish I knew WHY you do it. So much of it, there has to be some sort of conscious effort on your part. Perhaps 'conscious' is the wrong word... perhaps not.
Maybe I'm just being confused that I haven't been called 'dove' in a while.
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