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The starlight that traveled so far to reach
us shines unnoticed above the roof;
inside, on the classic movie channel,
Charles Boyer is gaslighting Ingrid, or
Gene Kelly is singing in the rain,
or Clark Gable isn’t giving a damn,

but we aren’t watching,
because my hand is caressing you,
I’m slipping my fingers into your jeans,
and my tongue is tasting your lips;
we’re inside our own small, infinite
universe of pleasure.