Love is Whimsical

With eyes as old and wise as the earth on which we stand, he reads my souls as if were a book containing infinite pages with intertwining narratives and make believe. There is an almost ghost like quality to it, like he isn't really there for me to hold and take as my own, just a figment of my imagination, along with the rest of my perfectly designed daydream of a life worth living. Nothing but an impossible dream. He is here, in my arms, just to the left of the centre of my rib cage, where he lives in my heart. 


Love is whimsical. 

xo xo Miriam 

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