I am afraid to die. You lie.
The soup is ready. The rain
stops. We have come to this
without grief, but also
without hope. Admit it:
without hope. But I hold you
in the crib of my arms.
Streetlamps open their eyes,
drawn into our tragic
love story. I am afraid
to let you go. Unlike you,
I am not lying; I am
not that strong.
Our food is now cold.
But still we
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