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as if the afternoon were
climbing onto a high shelf
where people call the stars
by their names

as if emotions were satellites
that revolve around the sounds
we make when we thirst,
when we crave

as if we are hemispheres
of painted deserts
and trees that feel pain

as if it only rains
because there is a part
of sincerity that’s been
too long silent, and it needs
water to remember language

as if shadows kiss

as if the sky is incomplete

as if we are not here
but dreaming
of hearing that rhythm

(what if it’s actually
the voice of love
calling)

as if we are made of glass
and covered in storied streets
and our meaning is stitched
in footprints
.


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untitled photo
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from image bookmarking site Pinterest

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