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by on May 10, 2024 at 5:31 pm
Posted In: Uncategorized

metamorphesque:

text id: My Sun, your kiss blossomed and blistered, There’s no cure to the ache that you left. Yet my lips, oh-so-tenderly, whisper, "Better wounded than lone and bereft." ALT

Untitled, Tathève Simonyan

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