I no longer live in the city. I thought my atoms would draw me a body. I thought my emptiness would find a witness. But you are who you are, and I'm the dust left on the window. I'm the resident of these walls.

You're my excuse when love is a sin. You're a bird. You're so alive, like a head spinning with thoughts. Like the air. But I am the dust. Your skin has sensed me. I touched your hand in your sleep, covered your eyes, enfolded your eyelashes and held your toe. Then I prayed all night for the wind to never take me away and for your tear to never wipe me off.

The other night, I could swear I saw your hand reach to me. I clang until I became a part of you. I felt your heart beat and I thought it did. I saw your smile and your laughter. You spoke to me about your dreams and I wanted to be one, but then you told me how dust has been surrounding your window. You said how you've been thinking to clean the mess. No confesses made you see. No truth could let me be. I covered your eyes, enfolded your eyelashes and held your toe. No wind could take me away. 

I'm mistaken for my own shape. I'm sorry that I travel in storms; that I fly in a falling state. But you're a bird. You're so alive. Like the air.

“Come on in,”
I heard that; his dirt accumulated me. But you wouldn’t know. It’s dark and I’m at the window. 

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