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  She sleeps like nothing's wrong in the world. As if nothing's wrong with her, as if nothing's wrong with me.
  Her head on my chest, against  my beating heart, her arms around me, her fingers intertwined with mine; her eyes softly closed, her lips slightly open, a little blooming smile on her cheeks. The bed is all warm and there's darkness floating all around us.
  She sleeps like nothing's wrong, but there are people walking homeless, hopeless, endlessly right there on the street outside our door. There is war surrounding us. There are children dying of thirst. There is me with her. And I don't love her anymore.


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The sky was red. Bluish, orange, red. Blinding when facing the sun. She had her head on the edge of the matress, her endless hair falling downward, softly brushing the floor. Lying across the bed, her lower back was on the other edge, and her legs ascended all the way up the wall to the window, where her feet rested, and danced, and swayed embedded in the sunset's orange light. She had her eyes closed, her lips barely half-open, her fingers intertwined, resting atop her stomach, which gently moved up and down with every breath she took. Regarding him, he was sitting a little more over there, his back against the wall and his head against the window, his feet on the floor. Still, silent, looking at her without knowing she noticed it. He was just a movement of her hand away, and she had no trouble admitting she wanted to touch him, that she wanted him to touch her. She wanted a little intimacy, fingertips, a first time, goosebumps, a shiver, a smile. But she only heard him breathe …