Atop a Frosted Wedding Cake

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As the fifth ringed fragment of the champagne sun sets
You press against me, whispering against my hair,
As we begin to walk down the figure-eight path of infinity,
By-stepping foot-falls and mountains and molehills,
Trudging through the forbetterandforworse possibilities and predictions,
Before stopping, at last and too soon, to watch the dimming apocalypse
Holding hands as we stand in the barren wasteland





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