She goes up and off in impalpable smoke, while he drank the 60's stroke. Now he must go..for the place he must not know. As the man can replicate his own mistake, the endeavor must forget the implacable sweetness of her taste that no longer serves as his own. The aromas or the rumours that leaks from the holes of the steady autumn window that sometimes shivers from the teasing's of the dusky wind and if you stare at its emptiness for long and mad to make you think, her roots has already sailed off to another shore and settled for the piers and no longer awaits for your isle to call her home. And he will do the same for his roots will seek another land before..before he is killed by the only man (himself) who feeds on her love each hour, now he must resist his wrinkled bones and forget for he is unloved and been forgotten by ..who now belongs to many but not to her own.

 

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