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Shadows And Passion

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I was at fault.
I blew out the candle tonight.
It wasn’t that I didn’t like the warm, comforting glow.
I just knew the wick would burn out eventually.
Preserving integrity.
Might as well, the rest of the ring of fire we made is burned out, only the ashes glow dimly now.
We lit up the forest and the forest went down.
We’re out of control. Reckless abandon, recklessly abandoned.
Floating, we’re colliding. We’re bound to.
I love it, I miss it, I hate it.
I watched those fires burn with a fervor so uncommon.
Quirky dances in the moonlight. Flames tickling the sky.
And I smiled.
Teeth glow in the firelight.
As do we, I’m sure you’ve known.

And as the fires die, our shadows grow long and spindly, caricatures of what we want to be. And they will become entangled as we do, odd proportions making an artistic mockery of passion.
And then the fires will completely die, and all light will fade.
And before we’ve realized what we’ve done, we will be there, alone, in the farce our shadows have been creating.
Ever so diligently.





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