Golden red, oranges, and yellows. Pick me up and bring me home. Touch older hearts too sore to feel it. But will believe in, the time of seasons. I knew I’ll never see this self again. When they said that real love was yet to be felt. That upon touch, all else would melt to one. Nothing else should matter. Nothing else even matters.
∆ Neural Alchemist | Self-mythologist ∆
Freegrandmaa 