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Poets never wrote of window of yellow air. Backs. Two backs. Not faces.

Wax of the candle flows without dilemma. Same nude wall. Screamless

We wonder how one abandoned room holds everything. Dreams slipping

through as silk. Breeze of departing fragrance of lillies. How it holds still

Backs of two lovers. Silent in sand

As one big yellow moon climbs over a window swallowing loss. Hidden.

Old phone rings. Carved mirror speaks.

My poetry rises in rags. His body trembles.

Vaishali Paliwal

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