where we meet,
time to time,
i call it the season of dreams.
here i stand drenched
rough with sand and tastes of salt.
these limbs,
arms,
laying here useless,
no you to hold,
waking from a dream,
or dreaming under a coma?
real like honey pressed upon lips
uncertian like gold spun upon the moon.
laying,
like waiting and watching,
For a night eclipsed,
scattered with flying lights,
against the darkened sky.
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