Me Being Even More Sentimental. Dang It, I See A Pattern

Some womanish prose of which I'm ashamed of--while it might be well-written, I don't like being weak. However, I told a friend he'd see what I didn't like. Here it is.

I wish time would bend, and fly back to now, years from today. We would meet in the rain again, you would whisper life in my ear again, and sing praises to the wind again; whilst you caress my skin beneath the forsaken midnight willow. We would dance on the hands of the clock , over frost and flame before we crash in the shades of nostalgia. And I would nestle softly in your safe arms again, set sail upon the mist again, bestow a soft kiss and sweet glances again. Would it be as just and pure? Still true? A binding oath would escape our lips again, and find it's mastry again, beneath our petalled sheets. Innocence is lovely--sentimental and darling--but curiosity is embolding, daring, persuasive. And deadly. The results are the forbiding of such unholy repetition, and in thus, unendurable sorrow. Next along the bitter path--that acrid, moaning path!--is the final token: Death.