Balcony Shisha Bar, Lygon St.

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The last timeΒ I fell
out of love was the
first time I stepped
into a shisha bar.

After the smoke cleared
and mirrors disappeared,
your silhouette stood stark
against the charred stars
and you gifted that bright
crescent smile to your tiny
light brick, as my mouth
filled with soot-stained
darkness.

I learned how vast the universe
could be through the centimeters
of infinite space between our
barely brushing shoulders.

You held the milky way
in your lungs so effortlessly
as I choked on the aftertaste
of faint, artificial strawberries,
to think I held my breath hoping,
that you or us could be real.

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