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Literature Text
Fall in love with me a little. And we'll spend the rest of our years in this afternoon.
My eyes will meet yours and look away. My hand will run through your hair and stop. My fingers will find yours and pull away, and then find yours again. We'll drink coffee and sit on stairs that end too quickly. The sunlight will highlight your profile a little too well. My skin will look a little too luminous.
I'm not a poet, my darling. Poets are decievers through refrain. Instead, I'll read you speeches from Shakespeare and enthrall you with my ancient eyes.
I'm not a poet, my sweet. Poets betray themselves in lyrical verse. Instead, I'll tell you stories and make you wonder with a voice that will make you drowsy in the winter sun.
You're not a poet either. Poets sing too soon with no music. Instead, you ebb your emotions through your musician's fingers on methodical frets.
You're not a poet either. Poets layer emotions through hollow words. Instead, you amaze me with your wine rich voice and eyes that speak volumes.
We feel different this afternoon. Even when we are who we were two days ago. You're new to me and I'm new to you. I'm not a poet, darling. But forgive me these words...
Fall in love with me a little. And we'll spend the rest of our years in this afternoon.
My eyes will meet yours and look away. My hand will run through your hair and stop. My fingers will find yours and pull away, and then find yours again. We'll drink coffee and sit on stairs that end too quickly. The sunlight will highlight your profile a little too well. My skin will look a little too luminous.
I'm not a poet, my darling. Poets are decievers through refrain. Instead, I'll read you speeches from Shakespeare and enthrall you with my ancient eyes.
I'm not a poet, my sweet. Poets betray themselves in lyrical verse. Instead, I'll tell you stories and make you wonder with a voice that will make you drowsy in the winter sun.
You're not a poet either. Poets sing too soon with no music. Instead, you ebb your emotions through your musician's fingers on methodical frets.
You're not a poet either. Poets layer emotions through hollow words. Instead, you amaze me with your wine rich voice and eyes that speak volumes.
We feel different this afternoon. Even when we are who we were two days ago. You're new to me and I'm new to you. I'm not a poet, darling. But forgive me these words...
Fall in love with me a little. And we'll spend the rest of our years in this afternoon.
Literature
Chance Meetings
"Do I know you?" "Not yet."
Literature
please let me get what i want.
For two hundred and eighty four days, I woke up. I woke up with this bone-deep ache that never went away. I woke up to an incessant question playing in my mind that would never be answered. I woke up alone.
For two hundred and eighty four days, I woke up without you when I woke up at all. The thing about time is that it never does make anything better. It just means more space to think. It means sleepless nights trying to figure it all out. When it went wrong. How to make it better. It means slowly losing my mind. But it never once meant getting over you.
It's funny how the things you think you've forgotten always come rushing back when you
Literature
Idyllic
he always spoke of the romantic stance in a smoker
whose every gasp was like a suicidal swansong, he
wrapped himself up so tightly in unwarranted wishing, when
they stripped him free, he then stumbled into the sunlight
and burnt [out]
no one laced his pillows with lavender and moonbeams
and all the other things that call dreams out from
hiding; but he still prayed upside-down overdone
every evening for a falling star to find its way
back home.
instead, they surrounded him with [a grain of]
salt circles like curses to draw out the weaknesses
temptation had embedded in him, because
nothing beautiful was ever built atop a rotten
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I feel moments a little too deeply. I shouldn't. They leave a dull ache within your soul.
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