fidgeting the strings of the humble violin
nestled in my chest.
His was trickery in the pinnacle of its form,
emblazoned across a face
devoid of his deviousness.
Falling prey to a reality existing only in my longing.
Perturbed.
Neglected.
And willingly hoodwinked.
My mortality deceiving better judgment,
I traipse a route where logic is an absentee.
I am a helpless romantic.
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In somnis veritas - Latin. In dreams, there is truth.
