Why?

Real love imprinted across my fists, why? You ask. Because it hurt to keep fighting round for round to give it even after you threw the towel in. I guess sometimes real love hurts, why? Maybe so it can heal then reveal its true beauty. Why my hands? Because real love is the foundation of everything I have to give. I make amends, no sad songs, no violins. Just angel harps, harmonicas, sunny sky blues in the end, Real love always wins.

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