Our shoes have scuffed toes and worn heels
From walking on discarded dreams
That litter busy streets, forgotten alleys, and crumbling backways.
Our fingers grow dusty as we trail them absentmindedly
Through everyday grimy hopes
That line staircases, windowsills, and kitchen tables in rented rooms.
We do not even notice the ashes in the air,
For we have grown so used to smoke and the odor of burning down.
This is how we live.
And yet. I can see the tears in your eyes.
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