Maria Nicanor

misfit toy

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21 janeiro 2014

She started wondering around with a cigarette in her mouth. She hated the scent of it, but smoking had an odd taste of serenity in the gale.
She could think of a thousand reasons why she didn't believe him. But it was not about the reasons. It was about love, undying love. She had tried to put her feels under her bed, but when the night came they were high lighted by the stars, deepen by insomnia. She devised a hearth on the fireside in the back of her mind and she pictured throwing all them in without hesitation, but ashes blew towards herself like a phoenix reborn.
He was not merely a short time summer love that engaged in summertime sadness. He was the man that were once a boy and she was the girl who knew the boy in him. He was her home and she was his. They had bought seeds and planted them in the garden and the primroses had grew, lived, died and lived again, and again. They had a bed of grass with a soft green pillow and the moonbeam ray. It covered their knees and tickled their hearts tenderly.
'They were something perfected with time', she thought. 
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