a perfect fit,
starlight flitting between dark caverns in the sky,
until it is as bright as London on New Year’s Eve.
Nightmares cry out, chased from my side as we drink in the soft, sentimental air.
This is our world now,
and I’m aware of how much it means to finally find meaning in the simple practice of pressing my painted lips against another.
Once an obligation,
a theatrical facade and folly,
by the bay, in the view of your gentle blue eyes,
it is wonderful.
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