I love your words that create a smoke screen around me. Your words, intentional and alive. Except one fine day, it will really stop mattering to me, conveying any significance as such. It is called the law of diminishing marginal utility. Everyday I will adore you a little less. Possibly. Till a point where my mind and my body will concurrently reject those inane bubbles. Maybe. And all I will be doing is wishing we had started off with so much more of that tender, ineffable passion that it took a much longer time to reach this zero.
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