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She was, she watched, but she wasn't real anymore. For weeks I could still see her sitting in bed, smoking a cigarette without smoke. She smiled and I smiled back. I told her stories. I liked to make up stories. Stories were better than truth, most of the time they still are.

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nighttime sounds: an owl in a tree,
wind rustling the remaining leaves
gnarly branches,
black against the moon

the sweetest dreams,
taking residence in my heart

you & I
an impossible possibility
the sheets will not reveal my secrets


In silence

never would there evermore
a song upon a breeze
for music has forsaken us
went lost among the trees

now darkness has surrounded us
and vanquished all the light
in silence now we just await
the visitor in the night