quantify this

Journal

Dim lit streets. Popcorn infested, making pretzels. A cafe, cup of espresso. A university, hundreds miles away. One thing remains. A continuity that exists beyond our control. I’m thinking of you. Given away only by a faint blush of my cheek and a sly smile. Passion radiating off my skin like a warm Moroccan sunset or a crackling fireplace tucked away in a cabin. A Parisian lamp on a street at midnight, a rustic and aged kind of beauty. Unfulfilled excitement of Night, providing the dark mask, promiscuity and lust. Give me only time and I might bloom in front of you like a prize rose, but we have no more time. Cut short. Severed and no other option. Drama and chaos, but I just want a simple love. One. The perfect and beautiful family – fell in love young, met through coincidence, married on a whim but everything felt right – waited five years to have kids, had a healthy and established relationship as a couple. Humble, happy. But there is no time, no future, nothing substantial here except that Moroccan glow emanating. Nothing a scientist could quantify, except in heartbeats per second. I love-

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