But I shouldn’t, you wouldn’t, we couldn’t. What have I to offer? Ghost stories. Lighthouses. Woods, water, winter, words. Musty books and autumn leaves; fresh baked scones and homemade jam. But am I naïve to believe that could ever replace the thrill of stolen kisses? What else have I to offer if not vulnerability? Seashells. Picnics. Rain, rocks, rivers, ravens. Fairy rings and starless nights; midnight trains and harvest Moons. But am I a fool to presume that could ever be proof enough for you of my love? What else have I to offer if not intimacy, not touch? We couldn’t. You wouldn’t. I shouldn’t.

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