Something about those dark winter evenings,
When the scent of dew on dry grass,
Mixed with the scent of her hesitation.
Something about sitting under a joyous creeper,
On stone parapets and fresh moss,
Breathing in air thick with elusive thoughts.
Something about sitting where I am today,
Romanticising about a past not too far away,
Wondering if it'll still be the same,
If we sat under the creeper and played the same game.
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