All but one of the seats in the on-second-thought luxurious gray car have no present people in them. This makes just enough room for no radio and the glossy water drops on the windowpane in the nighttime, which all of a sudden have a dare-it-be cognizant beauty because of what they might have meant for the future all those years and shedded snake skins of persons ago. And might mean again, or might be found to have always have meant.
This sidewalk is made both for the splattering, dignified
pitter-pattering of the raindrops after a thoughtful fall bad-weather
day, and the steady step of this black dress shoe.
And I walk beneath the stars you can't see tonight, and know with a bone-strengthening certainty that they are there and always will be. And that, whether or not he chooses to give them to me, they are mine to have. This is the part where the eyelashes flutter, and I wake up to dream again.
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