Words call to me, arriving on the wind of sleep.
For now, I sit alone in candlelight.
I hated leaving our bed, leaving you—but my hand aches for a pen. It aches to tell our epic story.
I wish I could paint our legend in the sky, a constellation to be remembered forever—but I am no painter. I am a writer, a weaver of words, and I will inscribe our saga in the book of our lives.
One day, when we are old and gnarled, we will read it—our hearts still young. I will look at you, and see our journey in the smile lines of your eyes. Tears of joy will spill down my cheeks, and you will catch them with your lips like fallen stars.
Let me tell you the tale of our love.
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