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Beauty

She looks at me from the window. A stone cold beauty. She still remembers the last carnival, the last time somebody invited to her to dance. Is hard to tell, if she is sad or may be if she is just remembering the dance steps she made, the hand that took here waist, the kiss that somebody stole from her in the last hour of the night. I want to open the window and steel a kiss from here and may be the beads. Or may be I just want to dance with her, perhaps the next carnival I'll be here again and we can dance together.