Romantic

There’s a beautiful story in all of us waiting to be told. It traverses and consequently escapes the reality of life taking on a distinct dreaminess that’s akin to a pulchritudinous danger promising to overlook what the world sees and paint us over as a panoply of unimaginable beauty. It’s like touching the sky or dancing with the moon, seeing wolves howl or, watching a rose bloom, a mess of beauty and danger intertwined in a singular design which, viewed in the right light could, within moments, defy time. The irony. You’re just a temporary piece of forever, floating in, your own wondrous imperfection and cosmic insurmountability surrounded by a world that could be or not be of your own making, a diet of Matrix, numbers crackling in your design, and, enraptured hearts ache. Weary indecision. See I’ve thought about you in such a way as to derive a pleasure that is without form or sensibility, an eloquent dreamer, well versed and wondering at the limits of your agility, splitting me into infinite dreams ans here I am so lost and insignificant. Late nights spent awake, trying to recapture the frame for, I’m a broken mirror and my heart is just too bitter hoping you like pizza places could be contacted to deliver. Deliver, from me myself for I’m lost in a haze, dazed and disarray, stuck not knowing what is this phase, leaving you but funnily enough the , fact remains, that changing as we may change our , fickle minds is still inside and trapped, in our own ways. I die.

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