What
I heard then
when the rain struck
the leaf
blinked. When the
giraffe
child slid out,
opened her eye for the first time,
fanned
those lovely coveted
lashes. When my movement
loved its
movement’s clone
in the moonlight;
in you, asleep.
The stars
trembled
on the ceiling. They do
not
talk amongst themselves. They
do not tell
secrets—they have no secrets
left to tell.
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