I swear we were love.
We, once immortals of moonlight's glances. Now... I'm praying within forbearance. Didn't we shine like bonfires in autumn ? Wasn't our lust an ever present wafting jasmine ? And after each fall from grace at the hands of a masked Adonis, we would begin upon a promising current, back out to an all consuming sea. I am forlorn of any visit home, for then the aching in my chest. It knocks the wind out of my lungs, ablaze with regretful gasps. Still, I put a match to the kindling of remembrance. And didn't we shine like bonfires ?
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