was it not my purpose to fall in love with you but to be happy, to taste your wildish passion, the magic of a miracle you are, my storyteller, the writer costumed as a soldier of the words using the polychromic vestments of illusions provoking me, confessing till I'm pouring down amazing, for I hate you so much as I miss you

you know all of me 𓇼 at the beginning everything was black and white; after that, it appeared blue and yellow 𓇼 slowly, like a deity with an army of stars i conquered all the earth's colors, diffusing on you a wild and exotic aroma of my essence 𓇼 a few months later, undomesticated, — love bloomed invitingly, like fresh roses‧‧‧ yet, not so  hungry, like the wolf

perfect night, inundated with quintessential dreams... — shapes your silhouette 𓇼 love doesn't make mistakes; knows to amplify your essence, deep enough to keep you dry