I feel like going on a date on a sunny afternoon only to get lazy in the park, or read books at a quiet cafe with my lover, stop going to clubs at weekends and stay home with him doing something very ordinary, telling stories about how we/life/love would be if we were living in another time.
It makes me want to stop being arrogant, and be sincere, to get rid of the wall around me, to wash off the fake out of my face, and at last, be the silent me which somehow may be the real me.
Gracefully dancing, a fine dress, tempting innocence, the bouquet of the curly hair gliding through the air, a woman's silky touch throughout the tuxedo's firm but smooth fabric, strolling, strolling the old wooden flooring with matching modest steps, a smooth spin, blushing like a flower in blossom, a kiss, lingering...
Such precious words, few yet everlasting. They're still somewhere inside. Those noble chords playing, altering, getting stronger then softer again and again... Those notes look like tears, look like me at times, but periodically transforming into something new.
"You laugh like no one else; pure, sad
I'm so alone in this saga I know I will never let go
And fall in love..."
said I.
You didn't like the melody of my poetic confession but it was how I felt back then. And as though I made an oath, those words sealed in the air at that point in time and remain today.
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