Graveyard AngelA Poem by Gaia OctaviaI always wake to find you there: a wisp of memory, soft as a palm pressed to my cheek. Your eyes: two celestial reflections, polished in glistening moonlight, hold me in their solemn gaze. As our breaths mix and mingle, weaving a delicate lace in the crisp night air. The white, drifting snow settles, undisturbed on your furrowed brow - fingers failing to smooth those chiseled lines. And your rich, dark hair - flecked with white - lies neatly against your face as the mulish wind continues to blow. You never speak my name, though you still comfort me, like my own graveyard angel.
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