A large moth throws itself toward the sterile porch light kissing my cheek with its soft wings Anjali's speaker blasts Taylor Swift's saccharine crooning: message in a bottle is all i can do / this is a state of grace, you're my achilles heel She's insufferable, but Matty Healy isn't much better, you know. The street is quiet; we have reached the point of the evening where nothing moves not even the birds a first glance feeling on new york time / i'm the one on the phone as you whisper I stare at my hands, my typically long nails freshly trimmed examine the plain ring on my left hand, the square green one on my right meet me in the afterglow / autumn air, jacket around my shoulders is yours Each breath tastes like Dhaka is on the next block over, waiting for you, (me), us. Every song has become yours Harry Styles' flashing [wrong color] eyes, all my references here wildly complex yet clear the monsters turned out to be just trees / they are the hunters, we are the foxes Hey, "James Dean daydream," are we out of the woods? Did we ever fall out of fashion? The 1975 won't sully the good canon unless you want it to, I know where I got my knack for unabashedly direct poetry from. With my eyes closed, I'm able to almost feel your face cradled in my hands wrapped all my mistakes in barbed wire / i don't want to fit wherever (wherever) The sensation is materializing, my heartbeat thumps this conviction when I'm half-asleep and too tired to overthink say my name and everything just stops / i've been sleeping so long in a 21-year dark night Your face, cradled in my hands. Your face, cradled. My hands. Your face. Your face.
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