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Time Machine

Then you lay your body down, eyes looking up, your fingers pointing to the sky. “You’re pointing to a star?” I asked. “No, that’s a planet. Stars shine, planets don’t,” you replied.

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His Secret Talk

I love your energy it bursts whenever you’re talking about the last book you read or when you sip your cold black coffee while writing your poem A poem without rhyme, yet remains beautiful “You’re a great poet,” there I told you. “I’m not,” you replied. “I am a lost soul. A noise that resonates in silence. I am the…

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Let’s ramble. Just ramble. Over a cup of tea and bring me closer to your fantasy tell me bedtime story or the glimmering lights in the city you know, this is my plea.

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