Our edges are smoothed by fierce wind. Weather beaten, the drama of our rise still a monument to inevitable passion, collision, ascension. The Earth cracked and shivered with the sky as our salvation, and clinging together, calamitous hearts steadied into one beat that set rhythm to years of striving. Our shadows cast long, we spilled bold silhouettes over lands springing to life as if this union were contagion. They looked and gasped. They sweetly applauded. And in the torrential rains of responsibility and the abusive gales of obligation our prominence never crumbled, but grew softer, the thick layer of our defenses eroding; our heights slowly diminishing. We gripped at night as lovers with hands hungry for flesh and mouths wet for the taste of each other. Day exposed our bruises and failures, the collapse of our embrace into crags and landslides crushing once mighty will. And still we stood, but overgrown by the insistance of natural law: all things come to an end. It would have been so much easier to return to the lowlands, but our heads have always been in the clouds, our view omniscient and obscured. So I’ll look West, where the marks of lovers’ meeting are still fresh. Where nothing dismisses their violent ecstasy. And you stay East, where our shadows still play like an echo in the sun of a time lovelier than today.
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