Life is full of motifs, my poetry, my prose, my dance, my singing, my drawings, my touch, my scream, my tears, my menstrual cycle my depression, my hunger everything has a pattern except the eternal fulfilling love which I found which I searched flying like a bird and here I am in a cozy room whose walls are made of poetry cemented by my tears where I experience it where I drink it and savor it and that is enough this feeling is enough perhaps wrong, perhaps right but the feeling of melting in you my dear without motifs every bit is new and fresh my dear

Published by Sapience

A mere weeping dot in the universe.

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