The air was thick with the sweet scent of honeycomb and the sound of buzzing bees. We were just children then, chasing each other through the fields of wildflowers, basking in the sun until our skin was covered in a smattering of freckles. Our hands were always sticky with the golden nectar we stole from the hives, but we didn't care.
Those long summer days felt endless, and we spent them exploring every inch of our small town. We walked barefoot through the dewey grass, feeling the blades tickle our toes. We picked berries from the bushes and shared them, staining our fingers and lips with their juices.
We left snippets of ourselves behind, we wrote each other handwritten notes, folding them into intricate shapes and leaving them in secret spots for the other to find. We talked about our dreams and hopes for the future, but deep down we both knew that our paths might not intertwine forever.
We spent lazy afternoons under the shade of the old oak tree lost in books, our noses buried deep in the pages as we imagined ourselves in far-off lands. And as we read, our rosy cheeks grew rosier still, warmed by the sun and our love for each other.
Oh, how desperately we clung to that summer -- the taste of honey on my lips, the freckles on your nose, the scent of dewey grass in the air -- a fragment of a summer well spent.
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Volume II: An Ode To The Pit In My Stomach
PoetryIndulge in the ethereal sequel to the profound opus, "In Madness Lies Sanity," as this poetry compendium unravels its tapestry of emotions. With a delicate touch, it guides you through the corridors of innocence and vulnerability, transporting you t...
