sandra

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You touch these tired eyes of mine
And map my face out line by line
And somehow growing old feels fine
I listen close for I'm not smart
You wrap you thoughts in works of art
And they're hanging on the walls of my heart

I may not have the softest touch
I may not say the words as such
And though I may not look like much
I'm yours
And though my edges may be rough
And never feel I'm quite enough
It may not seem like very much
But I'm yours

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