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Ventilators

The time has come, it's just you and me, just one step before the four pillars of the vow shall be returned. Million followers, furies of chandeliers, and the chair of comfort are the final stanza of Act V. 7.6 billion matchsticks rejoice in the tangential bush fires in Azraq. Your white dress unveils the silver lining under the grief of loss and tomorrow. Just like how it was like 6 am in the morning, next to the ventilators by the pool, you hand me the vase that copies the equation of freedom. The carpet of Waterstones sapphires me to the sisters I could never forget. The faulty shamianas and the laughter of invitation bring my mind to the perfect Sunday I desired since 2010. Your smile tributes to 12-minute fancying Brady's high-five; thank you to my coach, who is still here, looking at me. I'm sorry for my mistakes. I don't want to do it again. Forgive me. The tears of today are gone as you cover my eyes with your cold hands for my next number. 
I'm tired of the journey, too.
Their lullabies and their dining table,
their goodbyes and the reunions,
their last kisses and their text messages,
And my tears and my faith shall be back.
Don't give up, this is just a beginning. 
We have work to do. Come join me in prayer.

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