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In the candlelight on dreamy nights the concrete of the world seems to crumble in your palm, With a brush, the fingers of the oak fire touch the walls with a subtle glow, The smell of fresh coffee rises as we clutch mugs, the nights darken but we care little, Sat in old jumpers, dishevelled, we find order in chaos, a beauty only we can understand, The touch of your hand against mine grounds me, flecks of ash rise from the fire and settle extinguished, Yet the fervour doesn’t die in your eyes, I notice the clock and wish it would stop ticking, Old books mount varnished shelves, waiting to be loved again, spectators to this world we’ve made as we compose our own stories, Everything here has a soul, and like the tales of old lands nestled and resting between the tea-stained parchments we find a frontier yet to be conquered, The kettle hangs upon the flames, water simmering, inked pages lay by our sides, unfinished poems, stories and letters, sensory overloads we couldn’t keep up with, The logs turn to coals and coals to ash, with the fire fading a constellation of embers is born, a smoky haze surrounds us and clings to our clothes, I wonder if somebody else would understand this feeling? If I could capture it in a phrase, would they listen? You hold my hand a little tighter as if you understood my unease, A match is struck, we light cigarettes, comforted by the quiet crackle of a needle as it touches vinyl, we relax as smoke stops still in the air, As dawn comes, we pull down the blinds, fighting the pull of time, alone together… As you smile at me, so unaware of your own beauty and warmth, the colour you bring to this room seldom fades, It’s in these thoughts I wander between memories, feel at home and make my peace with time… For I only love you more and more with every tick of the clock.
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