Frames. Frozen in time. A summer. Painted in red. A sparkling fall. And a dark, foreboding winter. But still. Fleeting images. Through me. Of a green isle. Of a beach at sunset. Of a quiet dawn on a park bench, with your broken hand in mine. I know you don´t deserve it. I know we had nowhere to go but here. But I also know, deep down, that we were worth every second.
Between then and now.
Tom McRae – Ghost Of A Shark
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