In essence, you glide so smooth, all things else seem careless.
The fingers of air caressing your hair, bringing jealousy, for that is what my fidgeting digits yearn for.
This wait, an eternity, but worthy a sacrifice for such a priceless gem.
An unfinished period which would decide, the end of sense, or blissful remainder.
Pardoning all because fault is found in desire alone.
To think, a grain of sand, in a world full, falling in decided chaos, tumbling.
To think this grain of sand could reach such a breathtaking stay.
So many efforts to unite that which was never separate.
But until it becomes foolish, every breath, every tear, every smile, and every pulse will be my testament to my sole wish.
The only thing that makes sense.
-Danny Wharton
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