harvest moon nights on the bike lane:
we are the last hearts beating in a ghost town,
the only ones left to breathe in others’ faded dreams.
the posters by the train station tell us the end of our story.
someone else was here to warn us of it, ages ago,
but the paper was shredded from oblivion’s pull.
our childhood was 1st wave and rainy novembers
until we strayed here, became the wanderers
that you only get to see on the silver screen,
back turned, walking down alleyways in the rain.
we’d turned into the spray-painted writing
on those abandoned, cracked wall corners
that only means something to the one who made it.
until it washes away, i am a lonely graffiti heart
left behind on the streets leading to breaking.
tonight, the world has already ended.
sometimes the world means nothing to me anyway
(even if somehow you still mean the world to me,
and i don't know how to reconcile that).
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