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I sometimes imagine you as an astronaut,
proposing to me before you fly to the moon.
Leaving me with a tiny star,
as you wonder towards the immortal night
we often sleep to.

A generation staring up to you
as they confess their dreams.
You stand on a mountain rock,
in the edge of nothing, or in the middle of everything.
While I gaze at you, behind my windowpane,
believing you are safe. Then I sleep underneath your remote skin,
hoping my dreams could reach up to space.


The Tasteless

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