a love story. a love story is always a story of disappointment. a forever oncoming failure to meet universal expectations, to organise these fantasies suspended into molecular structures of being. gravity attached me to you, one day. I circled circled circled you and you stayed motionless in mid-air...lips parted, watching me fall, not catching the drift. love is motion, always: falling, grasping, touching, leaving. holding on. love is sadness, always.
not enough, it seems.
my friend who's a dancer says: so, she disappointed you.
I say.
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