You were born speaking the language of the dying: I want. I need. Not enough. Give me. When will you learn the language of the living? Is there any word from the dead?
When you thought no one was listening, you used to sing. When you thought no one was home, you used to dance to the record player in your room. Now I never hear you sing.
Each night you cross to the other side alone. Each day with the rest of the perishing. Your heart, like any leaf, is two shades of green.
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