I live in a villa by the sea. Don't you remember? You used to live here with me.

            Each morning I wake from dreams of you, your smile on my mind. My eyes drift to the billowing gauze curtains that waft gently on the ocean breeze inflowing through the white oak and frosted glass doorway. I imagine you are there.

            I rise and take a hesitant step forward. You disappear onto the balcony. I follow. You are not there.

            Instead, I am greeted by the sun. It peers uncertainly over the horizon, then, in a blaze of solar glory, rears its lion head in silent roar. It turns the restless grey waves to molten gold and flecks them with flawless diamonds of ice. The sky stretches endlessly above, as does the sea endlessly below, yet it begins with the sun; deep orange fade to yellow and red, to deepest violet, to the blue and black of night.

            It is between the violet and black that I find the spectrum of your eyes, yet even the firmament at its finest hour cannot do them justice. The song of morning falls upon deaf ears once again as my own eyes become cloudy and dim.

            I scan the horizon for you, half-chance you should arrive as Venus and prove my claim that in the same context you are still more lovely, but as always, my effort is wasted.

            The sound of the tide I imagine is your steady breathing, low and gentle as I heard it when I held you near. Nevertheless, the waves do not quicken their cadence at the sound of my voice, nor slow with the scent of lilacs.

            My downcast eyes fall upon the roses creeping slowly onto the terrace nearest the wall. The buds open slowly, almost too slowly to detect, to greet the new day. The dew collected from the previous dark, when Diana flung her tears carelessly upon the Earth as she wept for you, sparkled in the new light.

            The roses, so soft and just the right shade of pink, speak of your lips with envy. If only they were as soft, as pink, then they would be truly beautiful.

            It's a beautiful day. It reminds me of you, but you aren't here. That makes my heart hurt.

            I hate…every beautiful day.

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Duo- *leans back in chair and puts feet up* Well, here ya go, ladies. Shinigami's finally posted something…and it's complete drivel. ^___^* It was an English assignment for a first-person narrative… mostly, the result of my W Somerset Maugham research for Lit. in combination with the Sugarcult songs that- No. Forget it! I am solely responsible for this piece'a crap. -____-* Ha-ha. I'm so friendless…

So this is what it's like to write…

*looks at hands*

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j00 ph33r m`/ n3\/\/ p0\/\4|-|!