Sometimes, things seem forever at the moment. A feeling been stuck for ages. A belligerent desire to write mourning poems. But there is no agry or disgrace. Maybe some empty emotions hidden in a hollow chest, which first contained a blooming heart. She admits she has to grow to love.
You know, you don't have to think you'll never find ...
I know, but maybe I want to ...
Why?
Maybe love is not real. Maybe love is not about sharing a life inflamed with passion, swansongs in bright moonlights, untold lips touching each other, silk memories, dreams in sparkling eyes, wildflower nights, paintbrushed thoughts, ...
...
Maybe love is a restless romance between tortured souls ...
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