The very hand of God dost not dare to touch thy cheek, for not even He should be so bold to dilute such perfection.

How, then, could I begin to justify my divine right to you? Might I have none? Could this be but a farce of belief be nothing but a ruse on the part of Deception herself?

Hope, ever fleeting from thy grasp, cease! For she glanced this way and her eyes tell a different story. One of acceptance and desire. Could this be for me? For my touch? For my unconditional love and admiration? 

Then she looked away, and Hope fled with her. Scattered to the wind from whence it came. Leaving me once again alone.


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