She tells me she hankers to feel the quenching warmth of the sun rays softly tickling her face on a genial summer morning. I tell her she can if she lets me open the window, but she rebuffs me every single time. She says she was born to dawdle in the dark, and the one who answers prayers may not fancy this unofficial manifesto of hers.
I tell her how grandiose the sun is, pompously burning and arousing the damned world, and is equally spell-binding when it sets, decamping from the clouds and leaving the sky like an abstract paragon.
She tells me she has seen the moon and venerates it every night. She always talks about the moon as if it’s the last piece of poetry clinging to the earth. She says she was brought to life by the magnanimous moon and is a progeny of a falling asteroid.
I tell her that I believe her, but honestly I am dubious of everything that she has to say, but for the sake of empathetic friendship, I manage to stay politely, quite. I tell her that I have seen a shooting star, and it felt like some angel fell of the untroubled night sky, twirling its way like a rushed lullaby and eloped somewhere just like the blink of an eye.
She is not fond of the stars like I am. She believes stars to be a tumultuous celestial mirage, and they forever lie. She believes that it was the fanaticism of the sinful stars that once escaped the bountiful bewildering space and dribbled down as balls of fire, meeting the sea that inbred the catastrophic dragons. I always ask her if she has seen a dragon, but she never answers that question.
She told me that she had to leave. I wanted to talk to her about the unimaginable and titanic infinities, but she has made her mind to go and I am not granted to ask her to stay any longer. As she leaves, I melancholically look at the mirror on my wall. I told my mother years ago, that my reflection talks, but she never believed.

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