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Arke May 2018
Your eyes, golden brown
Soft, delicate fingers brushing a single curl
Against my cold face
"body heat helps frostbite,"
You tell me
And you lick your lips knowing
I am unconditionally doomed
In our paracosm you would be my wife
Bound by our losses and found by each other
In the unlit room, you're mine for just the hour
And maybe that's enough.

— The End —