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The stars dance
to a song we know by ear.
In circles, they move;
gold dust envelopes us
in varied rhythms,
and amplifies the volume
our bodies speak in singularity.

That spring day,
I held a delicious glimpse
of your soul.

But like heavy hands
on ivory keys,
my eyes quivered open
to the darkest winter.

For a moment in time,
the cosmos allowed me
to shine with you.
I have already forgotten
the glimmer in your eyes,
like a ship that passed in the night;
a star that leads me
back to shore.
Can you tell that this one is about BTS HAHA
The rain resembles the pitter-patter of your words.
Each droplet— a syllable.
The chill— your breath.

I trace the streams of water
the same way I yearn
to run my fingers
down your skin.
I breathe in the scent wafting off the soil
and my insides warm.
The grey skies are calming,
yet electric,
as your gaze.
The drumming on the rooftop
whispers me to sleep,
gently,
as I allow my mouth to form around
the precipice of your name.
I can almost taste you.

I'm flooded with my longing to bury myself in you.

Drown me in your storm.
Drench me with your words
.
You are the almost-silent
of my coffee-stained summer.
You are the clear and tender
plucking of guitar strings
on a lazy afternoon;

With sunlight streaming through
the painted window,
just bright enough to fill the room
but gentle enough to fall asleep to;

with the smell of everything we love—
caffeine and chocolate and banana muffins—
seemingly coursing through our veins
with every breath we take;

with the daydream of
what-could-be lingering
in the haze, in the silence
it sits,
it waits.

I proceed to the only thing
I know how to do
at this hour of day:
I stare at the cars passing by,
all the while wishing
I was staring at you instead.
If you look closely
you'll see
there are still
unerasable traces of you
in my everyday.
It is such a funny thing
how love drifts back and forth
between tangled limbs;
    amongst a mess of sheets;
        through bruised kisses,
             and; alcohol-riddled breaths.
She rolled over
and nestled herself
in the crook of his arms.
This motion
seems to have grown
into the comfort of routine;
a rhythm
that their bodies have created,
quietly speaking the words
that were left unsaid.
"The night is young,
and endless,
and beautiful;" she murmured.

"As are you," he returned.
The vestigial four o'clock light
nudges me awake
and my eyes obey.
For a moment,
I have no recollection
of where it is that I lie,
until I hear the rasp
in your voice
make the gentlest rumble.
A chill runs down my spine
as I am reminded of the night prior.
I turn over
to blanket myself
in your warmth,
and it seems as though
I have just woken up
to a dream.
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