Red isn't always romance, sometimes it's blood,
Moon isn't always for lovers, but sometimes for secret cries,
Flowers aren't always for marriage, but sometimes for grave,
Petals aren't always soft,
sometimes they prick the soul.
No plagiarism/No hat...
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entangled entwined wild in vineyard, butter romance spread onto softness, held onto one another yet slipping away in slipperiness, sleeping, as i open my eyes those fingers disappear.
