To believe or not to believe in Fairytales always confused him.
She was like the breath of fresh air on the first day of spring.
He was like the first snow marking the arrival of the late, murky, grey, moon king.
She was the color infused in the butterflies and the flowers chirping by the stream.
He was the consistent nagging and threat lingering in the raging of the stream.
She was perfection created to the tittle.
He was chaos put together haphazardly with all his ends though sharp, yet brittle.
To believe or not to would always sound whimsical to him. But looking at her, he knew he had to //ndcb
