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What are we waiting for?
The lonesome moon
hung low in the sky
Its pale face,
staring at me through my window.
The clouds above
hid the stars.
No midnight chatter tonight.
For, it's just the moon and I.
I wait for it to speak,
to whisper, to make a noise of any sort.
But she just stares down at me,
and my messy mass of quilts.
We are waiting,
but for what?
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