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After The Windchimes

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She wakes up

And strolls downstairs,

Floorboards creaking under her tiny feet.

She picks up a pen

And her small pink notebook

Riddled with doodles and hearts.



She writes

About what she dreamt about

With the look of marvelous content

I don’t ask where she traveled;

What magic

Or heroics

Or romances

That she dabbled in over the night.



It doesn’t matter to me what she dreamed,

Because her smile is enough.





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