Written in blood.
Deep trails and
Sharp edges.
They're too much
Of a trudge.
Some are written
On water.
Invisible.
So forgettable,
That, they almost
Don't exist.
So brief was
Our union.
Yet, so intense.
That it was etched
On a rock and
Later fed to lava.
Dead poets must
Have painted it.
Our story is just smoke.
It doesn't really exist.
But does it?
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