At the end of the disaster that swept
Our streets with the twilight
And seeped into our hearts
Like the moonbeams,
What remained was a patch of purple
On my dress.
It was not your purple...
It was of a mindful kid who drew blossoms of lavender on everything
On my copies, my walls
My dress.
Yet why does a purple patch
Like the twilight
And the disasters
Remind me of times
That never were.
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