A spider slid down a leaf with the grace of an angel.
Life was crisp.
Love was a story written by the pen of a rippling lake.
The joy when the perfect day fades.
Like taking pictures of the moon,
Or unfolding the perfect bloom.
She whispered in my ear…
“In Heaven they play my favorite song.”
I’m suspended in your design.
You are my atmosphere.
You are my trumpet in the fall.
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