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when the air in my lungs gets cold and the planets align

when the last of the Colosseum’s stones turns into dust

the moment my body can’t produce any more heat


I’ll draw butterflies on your skin one more time

I’ll paint red birds on your arms and let them fly


I poured all the voice that lasted me on a lying wishing well

traded it for a human soul when I should have waited

if I had had the patience, maybe now I would have my wings


hands heating the metal, fingers embracing the trigger

maybe playing Russian roulette with you wasn’t a good idea

and betting on the weakest was just digging my own grave


if you read my tombstone, it’ll probably have a song

a poem, a quote that at some point meant something for me


you fed me with stars and crowned me with the moon

they gave me the clouds and the sea to have my story written

but now I see that instead of flying I started falling, drowning