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Our Bodies Were Tangled Beneath Sly Skies As The Stars Wrote Novels
We read the milkey way with our bare thoughts, our frail spines lying against the dew of the grass beneath us
Weaving a conversation strung like the stars scattered in the ivory blanket above us,
While they whispered to the moon
Speaking of comet children,
With stardust to fall with every crescendo of laughter to numb us into nothing;
The last of the light to lick our pale faces away.
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