There are so many things that I wish to say, but my lips are watchfully tight. The sound of your voice affects people in a way that to be under your spell sounds more of a privilege rather than a misperception.
Your poise appears like a dreamland filled with autumn leaves as if equinox was just a month away from winter, and that to see you is to lose sight of all the other things that there is to ponder.
You are a season that bestows both warmth and twilight. To be alongside with you is every maiden’s vision. Nevertheless, I discern that this is just another tale of two beasts of who are indubitably bright.
Bright enough to fall. Bright enough to be bewitched. Bright enough to let all the other hoards glitch. It is quite saddening to think that there is nothing else to do but write.
For impulse is not a friend, nor a mate, nor a knight. To rush into love is like writing a story without a sight. So I guess we are both bound to stay as weathers, for to overlay is to gain nothing else but blisters.
