Here, I am enwrapped by my mortality. Forgotten tastes, on palettes of the tongue. Light colours congregate at the bridge which rises at dusk. Small yachts bask above the purple satined river. Charcoaled, gradually by the night. Filters of existence, fading in and then out. We turn to our dreams, where we are exposed to the auras of former lovers. Their faces, contoured, breathless, in the neon blue mist. Oh how we have missed, the outlines. The rushed seconds of grandeur, elapsed with a blink. The smallest things. Like the lips, we have never kissed. The absence of “good nights.” Walks above the cobbles in the old, old town. Where lovers, they drink, into the nocturnal hours. Beneath their indiscriminate, mortal sky.
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