𝒯ime, an uninvited guest, death- a harbinger of the end that has yet to seize your breath; ever bated and laden with fleeting dread.
⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀ 𝒴our skin began to crumble beneath my fingers, the soft bliss and balmy scents of a summer's revelry lay amiss among the wilted peonies tucked in your tousled, flaxen hair. 𝒴our eyes glow no more, your hands no longer oft ripple with warmth as once did. 𝓕or with each silvery sigh, your voice grew mum like the morn birds that grew wary of your moribund form. 𝓘 whisper, coax and beseech— but never once did fate ever grant such pleas heed nor glance upon the shadow of my misery as it forsook your life entirely. ⠀⠀⠀⠀
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⠀⠀⠀⠀
𝒯he earth yearns to relish in the rhythmic beat of your nimble feet. The winds, left quivering in rue without the lilting tunes of your ash-wood lyre to usher in the joys of savouring nature's rage on a blowy day. 𝒯he babbling brook that sought refuge under the shade of the aged hackberry tree long for your wilful hands to gather it's cerulean waters in the dip of your palms and drink till your ailed heart swells brimful with life, 𝒪nce 𝒜gain.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ . . .
⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀
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—🐚. 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐒.
𝐈. ' Venus and Cupid ' — Pierre-Maximilien Delafontaine.
