Inane Innuendo

Isn't it a pity that, what she and I have might be a foretold; untold tale? This writhing soul might be a fool to be - t a n t a l i z e d - by her honey-like scent, with the topical rose redolence; percolating every existing room for air in my thickly tar-scarred lungs from every hush of her troubled breath--- only then to realise that every passing seconds spent have always been a constellation of == inane innuendo == to pique the lovelorn in me.

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