the morning is when she lingers. it’s before the world wants anything from her and that’s when she’s most beautiful. it’s true that not many saw her like that but i can’t say i was the only one. even though we each have our own beginnings, mornings like this were shared between us all.
she used to tell people that it was like the world was drawn with a dull piece of charcoal. that was before me. now she sees things my way, it makes a little more sense. this is me. if i’m meant for anything, it’s to show her the world. is that so bad? the quiet morning like the many before it, calm and comfortable, but comfort can be terribly blinding. the difference with this particular morning is in a call. she smiles, for who? i can’t see anymore.
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