Something is lost between the feeling and the word, the pushing and squeezing to make it fit tears fragile threads of thoughts too fine to stitch or braid, they recede in a fugitive twilight inexpressible, collecting in the silent spaces of the heart's fluency, where their presence expands with the years pulsing with an indefinable need, until they filter into the throat of regret, and we find ourselves choking to death on the swollen tongues of things unsaid.Birth sign: Not entered
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