this is me: on the edge between us because we are dying happily together and we fall when we cry -- when stars sparkle it is not, it is fairy dust, it is snow not falling but falling off of trees when we shout hard because sound is traveling, radio waves, can you solve it with a vector and an x until the answer comes clear? I don't know you try it first or otherwise the day might end early, too early we can't -- wooden desks with pristine untouched computers while snow outside is stomped through we are holding tea in too-hot hands and boiling ourselves into submission.
this is an elegy.
this is falling on the edges, not the middle but far far out, we are fringes, we are nothing, we are ignored even though the universe only goes on forever, because that's how long we'll be falling through non-dark darkness till we hit a star and explode in nuclear fusion (but since gravity is at a nothing falling will be more difficult than it seems, than it seemed, than we are good at rising) like smoke under pressure we will stay.
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