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(🍇🎥📠…)
[i.] our love promenades; lingers by the gate of the church; nestling by the windowsill. amalgamating beneath the tenderest light-pour of moon as the evening hums its carol for the gardens to heed to in silence. how come, through the rumbling thunders and angered rain, that we remain precisely this: a fatal tenderness of love, blossoming like a burgundy bruise from the pencil we use to pen to each other—the quill we’ve wrapped our hands around a thousand times?
[ii.] we are a flock of doves, wishing to never be liberated from the shackles of our cage. we are ancient books gathering dust in the back of the shelf, kept in what could be disguised abandonment. we are a catastrophe, a tragedy at best. and yet if you ask me, i have been dealt with a great deal of despondency that ours, in comparison, seems like a warm small boat in the middle of the gentlest ocean.
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welcoming passage by auvienrose. penned on 26/12/2023. to peel the layers and unveil the tangerine dews within.
(🍇🎥📠…)
[i.] our love promenades; lingers by the gate of the church; nestling by the windowsill. amalgamating beneath the tenderest light-pour of moon as the evening hums its carol for the gardens to heed to in silence. how come, through the rumbling thunders and angered rain, that we remain precisely this: a fatal tenderness of love, blossoming like a burgundy bruise from the pencil we use to pen to each other—the quill we’ve wrapped our hands around a thousand times?
[ii.] we are a flock of doves, wishing to never be liberated from the shackles of our cage. we are ancient books gathering dust in the back of the shelf, kept in what could be disguised abandonment. we are a catastrophe, a tragedy at best. and yet if you ask me, i have been dealt with a great deal of despondency that ours, in comparison, seems like a warm small boat in the middle of the gentlest ocean.
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