sitting on windowpanes becoming
an addict before addiction
found me, i am strung onto words of
a song i love
and imageries of cigarettes in hand
but where do i find them, where
do they find me?
i own a sky full of stars and no one
but internal disasters
to share it with;
am i what they see, am i
the reality i had learnt to
dismiss?
are they what i see, are they
real?
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