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“The cold bites my face, The wind softly whines, I'm standing in this place, needing your lips to warm mine The clouds, they are glowing a delicate rouge It's funny how this beauty, makes me think of you” — -L.S.
The cold bites my face,
The wind softly whines,
I'm standing in this place,
needing your lips to warm mine
The clouds, they are glowing
a delicate rouge
It's funny how this beauty,
makes me think of you