I roll the window down and hold my hand out into the night;
reaching for the wind that glides through my fingers.
The shadow of what I wish was a ghost,
is only night air on my palm in the dark.
Luciana, 33
I roll the window down and hold my hand out into the night;
reaching for the wind that glides through my fingers.
The shadow of what I wish was a ghost,
is only night air on my palm in the dark.
Luciana, 33
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