He writes dream. And he does that just like a dream.
It bites. The only two words she could muster the first time he painted a dream for her.
But time has made him lost his words. And, hence he tries to borrow from a reluctant past.
He almost touches the longing. Strangely comforting, and yet beyond his reach. He just wants to write a dream again. Like he did all his life. He waits and yearns like an exit that hopes for an entrance.
It now reads like a page of history. And, the dream he painted then still bites.
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