ððēððĄ ðĻð ððĄð ððŦðĻðĪðð§ ððĄðŦðĻð§ð
ðŊð ððð ð ðððð, ðððð ð ððððð.
ðĐðð ððððð ððð, ððð ðððððð ððð ðððððð. ðšð ðððð ðððð ð ððð ðððð ð ððððð ðððððð ð ðððððð.
ðĻ ðððððððððð ðððððð, ððð ðððððð
ððððððð ððð ððððð ðð ððððððððððð.
ðĻ ðððð ððððð ðð ððð ððð, ðð ððð ððððð
ðð.
ðĻ ðððð ððððð ðð ððð ððð, ðððð ðð ðððð ððððððð
- I closed the book and a heavy sigh left my lips.
I looked out of the library and there he was standing at the door.
His arms flexed as his grip on the door tightened.
He felt so close yet so far.
And his eyes, his beautiful honey like eyes, it held a story.
A mystery that seems to pull me towards him, no matter how much I resist.
ððĻðŪ ðĪð§ðĻð°, ððŦðŪð ðĨðĻðŊð ð§ððŊððŦ ððĒððŽ. ðð'ðŽ ððĨð°ððēðŽ ððĄððŦð, ðĨðŪðŦðĪðĒð§ð ðĒð§ ððĄð ððððĐððŽð ðð§ð ðððŦðĪððŽð ððĻðŦð§ððŦðŽ ðĻð ðēðĻðŪðŦ ðĄðððŦð. ððĄð ðĻð§ðĨðē ððĄðĒð§ð ðĻð§ð ð§ððððŽ ðĒðŽ ðŽðĻðĶððĻð§ð ððŽ ððŦðĒð ðĄð ððŽ ð ðŽðððŦ ððĻ ðĨðĻðĻðĪ ðĒð§ððĻ ðēðĻðŪðŦ ðĄðððŦð ðð§ð ðŦððð ðēðĻðŪ ðĨðĒðĪð ð§ðĻ ðĻð§ð ðĄððŽ.