I wish i could tell you that, you are the most tender thing to me, a breathing memory having skin of crimson roses. Of eyes having stars. But only the tongue made of sadness and longings. Words, on your parted lips, waiting to decipher freely like the blown up dandelions but, refuse to melt down as soon as you look at me. I wonder, when will our eyes meet, and my ears will hear your velvet melancholy and my heart will pound on tasting metaphors on your lips.
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