This cynic, insect, an anti-septic;
dispirited, her glum perspective.
The face, she slowly turns indigo,
despondent, awash in snow.
And like immature, separated lovers,
fit inside wrappers and covers.
Idle without an intention to win;
inept in talk, sharing mutual chagrin.
Because some letters are sent
without a need for prior consent,
and in twilight, drizzle, and dew;
It's not just the ash, she's its residue
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