Nightfall.
Upon these hours, we tread
in alien form and mind.
Trespassing in reverie
at the grove's mystic breach.
It's yawning facade exhales
a faint, and fair fragrant mist.
Red, with whispers of dreams
of a ripe raspberry kiss.
Our ears chilled, and cheeks blushed
as through the gate we rushed.
The trees' amber, monarch leaves
fluttered about in the gentlest breeze.
Grazing weathered moss clad stones
fixed timelessly on a glistening creek.
The humming birds flew
in shades of yellow and blue.
Whilst the sun settled unto,
(as always time will prove)
a world too good to be true.
A pity we must adieu.
Alas...
I don't love you.
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