Rusty night was rough. I woke up to the clock that ticking harshly. You used to send me the morning text. I was a scrambled dough. You came as cinnamon. Spread it on my dough. Messy.
Goodbye sweetie.
YOU ARE READING
P O V
Nezařaditelné"Age is just number right?" he asked. "Perhaps" "You seems not agree. Why so?" again. "It might be number. By that, i mean the age itself. The memories on it, well... it last"
