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Description
I remember spring: the wind whispering in my ear the sweetest of secrets, the faeries dancing to the melody of the sea, and the grass waving their welcome. Vibrant colors, the brightest of greens against the purest of whites, and petite flowers winking. The bisous are simple and sweet, like pennies in a fountain, and time is spent buying memories, rather than losing them. Fall would soon be here and chill the petals away, but for now it was just me and spring, and the sun could yet smile. I could yet laugh; I could yet sing. Whispered words are only wonderful, and pain in nonexistent. But without pain there cannot be love, and I find myself becoming numb to life and its existence. Is this sun still shining? I cannot tell. But the moon shall be here all too soon, and then it is summer, and then fall and winter, and the flowers die and I along with them. Who shall come first? The sun or the moon? L’Ange d’Amour or l’Ange de Mort? Love….or death?

Description
I remember spring: the wind whispering in my ear the sweetest of secrets, the faeries dancing to the melody of the sea, and the grass waving their welcome. Vibrant colors, the brightest of greens against the purest of whites, and petite flowers winking. The bisous are simple and sweet, like pennies in a fountain, and time is spent buying memories, rather than losing them. Fall would soon be here and chill the petals away, but for now it was just me and spring, and the sun could yet smile. I could yet laugh; I could yet sing. Whispered words are only wonderful, and pain in nonexistent. But without pain there cannot be love, and I find myself becoming numb to life and its existence. Is this sun still shining? I cannot tell. But the moon shall be here all too soon, and then it is summer, and then fall and winter, and the flowers die and I along with them. Who shall come first? The sun or the moon? L’Ange d’Amour or l’Ange de Mort? Love….or death?