There will be a time when it will end.
Be it parting
Be it death
So each passing minute with you
Pendulummed with sadness.
So many times
I looked long into your face.
I could hear the clock ticking.
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A writer is rarely so well inspired as when he talks about himself
by Megan Snyder-CampWhat we built to hold us, the year's memory,
menus and daytrips, after a while
came loose. Those nights
we balanced on each other's mistakes,
cradling our wine:
twigs those branches ...