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I am as pleased as a punch and inundated at the same time, Peering into the morning with your absence from the pareidolia of mine.
Lying down on a Davenport with an infinitesimal whiff of the pungent smell of yours, Then, I scented the fragrance of Yves Saint Laurent's which everyone adores.
Burgundy Desert Willow and the Field of the Snowdrop, Had once witnessed the way our light fuchsia lips touched,
It was kept by the beady eyes and the great orb of the night so romantic, Carrying a heart of feelings of passion that was once prolific.
I finally hit the road without Zephyrs whistling your antecedents. Bookstores and coffee shops had finally forgotten the idyllic moments,
Even the streetlight at night shimmering to dim our evanescence, The sidewalk has proudly struck out our heavy footsteps,
Leaving the profligacy Deemed to be free whereas, seeing myself happy enough with anagapesis because you never tried to see me.
