They greet like dried leaves rustling through
the windows of an abandoned mansion
where paintings of forgotten faces
adorn walls of incomplete erosion.
Two sets of eyes lock,
and lips curl lovingly by chance
The flitting smiles pause in respect
for the passing glance.
But just as dried leaves wouldn’t turn green
no matter how much it pours,
The wrinkles of old souls do not smoothen
from love tales of yore.
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