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I got used to occupying the whole bed when I slept,
to stretch out my dreams, to let silence tuck me in at night
tuck me in at night, in no hurry to flee,
like a luxurious coat of soft disconsolation.
I don't cook on Sundays, the aroma is gone,
my flavours are free in this cold kitchen,
time stands still, there's no longer a motive
that dictates my steps, that demands my day.
I return at the time I feel like it,
the city lights are golden accomplices,
the laughter of friends, in early chats,
my soul is sacred.
I got used to not giving explanations,
my decisions are breezes that fly aimlessly.
The echo of my longings, in soft sensations,
envelop me in calm, in this vast world.
Feels to me like a sort of freedom. Adulthood. Being responsible for oneself.
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