I cannot fathom words for this state of questionable grace. A whirlwind of leaves trace the expired conversations to a moment in time when words were simple. The reality is, the passing month represents the spectrum of emotions that is endured only in the death of the quintessential first love. For I loved to a depth that only youth recognizes, and those days are fading towards extinction. And here I sit, letting the decaying summer overwhelm all else.

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