Soft and delicate were his features, so unlike what I was used to. The way words fell from his lips, the syllables sweetly caressing his tongue before fluttering from his mouth.

I say these words so artistically, but the hard line of truth streaks through them. But… it seemed I was the only one who saw what I saw, and felt what I felt. No one else seemed to think the gracefulness at which he danced through life was something to be admired. His low, swinging voice and tepid nature regarded as an excess of muliebrity, and nothing more.

He was disposable, and overwhelmed by the startling opposition to his beauty, I was swept up to feel the same, and disregarded him thusly.

It was such a typical story, and I forced any thoughts of him away, under the scritch scratch of the pestle scraping the bottom of the mortar. Until there was dust. And in the passing winds, it blew away. 


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