A brisk moonlit stroll on long island,
walking down suburban streets in skinny jeans and wool scarves
cardigans clinging to the silhouette of a child's neck craning towards the stars
Tripping over cracks in the sidewalks bent by wear from years of travelling the same foresaken path
that you've known since childhood
but hadn't noticed until it changed
But in this trance, it goes unnoticed
Tracing the pattern of the sky is precious when compared to cracks in pavement
because which would you rather be among?
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