Love letter # 427

A stray thought. Years stretch out, a yawn of time. You were eighteen then – and I was a fool. Together, we had little to no idea about anything. And yet, the soft landing of tenderness, like tentative footprints in powdery sand, has left its dusted outline. The shape of desire. Of youthful intoxication. Of misplaced hope. And of the ticking…incremental, inexorable. The brutality of memory. The mercy of forgetting. All this and more; wrapped up in the beauty of echoes. Like a faintly resounding bell, whispering in waves, having traversed an ocean to get here.

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