The Withered Leaves

The leaves withered off.

Its nudity enhanced the dryness of our relation; I stood there. The dying threads of lively moments, atoms of dreams vaporized as he took his steps away from me. Turning back wasn’t practical. He won’t and I didn’t want him to. But, somewhere amidst the falling situation, there was a vague, unattended feel. Always.

It was love.
He was gone, already.

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