Your touch is poison served in a beautiful cup, it burns slowly, but never stops. You play with fire like someone who has already burned the whole world, and you still pull me along—without warning, without a script. The full moon illuminates your private theater, where you command, countermand… and pretend not to care. And I'm there, complicit in your sharp madness, knowing that this story has no cure—and I don't want it to… my well-calculated downfall.
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