I only hear the chirp
of a single bird
and see the three
circular patterns
on the ceiling,
formed by the reflection
of the still glowing
street light through
the drapes.
When the line between
fiction and dream blurs,
when negatives
-not photographs-
are the only remnant
of falling in love,
when all thought surrenders
and gives way to only emotion,
and nothing else,
it is then that I realise
why the only bird out there
had to chirp,
why the only thing inside
will be echoes. 
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