We do not touch each other, yet we are touched, and your face glows like a touch of fire. A touch here and there, and voilà, a sentence is built as a bridge made of smoke. And it remains struck in the gap of a lost moment which passes like a wind. A key lies in your smile, your eyes the door, behind which, the lost moment grows as a seed. A rose will rise years later, when you look back on this moment, the memory a scent.
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