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Sometimes loving you feels like listening to a song in a foreign language. My broken tongue fell untranslatable still, even after thousands of melodies. We each paint meaning to what’s said, yet never knew whether or not meaning exists in the true. Some words are just too cosmic to comprehend. I try to learn the grammar but the rules seem to evolve as each day passes, as if the night brings home a different sun from the one before.

Love has its own mother tongue and I am not a native speaker. Imperfect conversations and alien songs. The heart resonates with an out-of-tune echo, beat by beat by beat, until it falls monotone.

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