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It’s not right, what they’re doing; cold fingers drifting along her knuckles, long walks in a graveyard full of flowers. A face that’s hers and not-hers - the painter’s hand was generous, but no love could heat the pallor from these cheeks, soothe the shadow of these eyes. Like a cousin, like a twin-
Bookmarked by CondorBoH
17 Jan 2025
