There's a knock on the door and love walks through and light a fire... a smile. As though love were going to stay and the fire breathes and weaves its spell until love runs out of lies to tell. For love is fickle... love's a flirt... Love's got places to go and people to hurt.
So here's the shovel to bury the flame. Tomorrow, you'll barely remember my name and t'll try to forget you my dearest one as a prisoner tries to forget the sun; for life holds no promise and love holds no charm since i beheld you in another's arms. Don't be someone else's slogan cause you're poetry. The biggest problem with perfection is its inability to recognize nor at least acknowledge anything less than itself.
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