On a cold autumn morning, there were her deep dark eyes, surrounded in red.
   Leisurely, as the gray long clouds in the hazy sky, she took her steps until me, one by one, stunted by cold. Her hands were white like the snow, her mind was white like the death. In a gangling hug, she whispered, trembling, "it was far from being a love story". She left her weight fall over my arms, and as if we were the same, I felt her tears warming my face, "it was never a love story".
   She turned around and break us apart, when the sun was finally fully born. She turned to never come back again, and gave me a kiss on my hand.
   As the clock was going on, and the night were coming up, a silver moon came shine above the melodys that were being born for us.
   To say goodbye to someone that will just not hear, I look above and realize, it was, yes, it was a love story, that we couldn't even dream about. But it was a love story, and I'm gonna miss her. The love, and the little sweet that my friend used to be.


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