no one writes their real love story the real love story stumbles down the mountains pulls back stops to catch a breath faces memories of the figure forever standing at the edge forever looking down at a looped path the real love story gets carried forward to other mountains to every mountain since the first among pine cones, pines, pining still
1 comment:
sometimes they do.only cloaked in so much trinkets that you can never tell. but the ones who can always sniff it out...trinkets, filth or gold.
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