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I see the table like a photograph
the mattress blackened where I sit and stare
where the bottle and the wooden chair
and paper plates and plastic cups had colour once
where smoke would keep the room in flux
where we'd stop to watch the cold stars flicker
and yearn to know their distance, until like they
we'd shiver in the length and width of it all
and held on to what little we shared
as we fell into what await us
the thoughts of how we'd journey back
if the things we shared would turn to dust
if the floor on which we had to dance
was lost—if we reached where I wait for you.