Poem

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If the boy who draws let you look over his shoulder.
If the poet smiles
and shows you her words.
If the girl who sings for the shower only, hums a song in front of you.
Know that you're no longer a person but the air and dust that fills their lungs.
When the world perishes, and all things cease to exist, you'll remain inside an ink stain, a paint brush, a song.

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