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That smile of his…I can’t seem to turn it down. When he’s not mad…not fighting…you’d think God was coming. And when he holds me…how he holds me where he does. It’s like the blues. Slow. Smooth. The touch. Lord, the touch. Hours of touching. Touching what’s touching. He’s a man all his own. Own watch. Own looking glass. Looking into my soul. Seeing. Looking. Trying to find me.