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In My Room

Sometimes I think about my baby blue room —

where strings of pearly moon shone in

and you felt beautiful wrapped in its light.

This was just a handful of long nights

before a sequence of pensive frustrations

and a useless awareness that something just wasn’t right.


Now look at how marred we have become in such little time

as your emotional altitudes hide behind a machine

and the quiet unearthing of gravel kicks at your feet —

see your sensible nature pass by just as quickly 

as it once started, then stopped.


My room has turned into a puddled blue since you left, 

and I can feel the same silent resignation I felt back then, too, 

believing I was the only one to know you 

in that very rare, ethereal light.

 
 
 

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