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I was once an addict.
Incomplete in her absence, longing for her gaze, aching to inhale her soul.
Her scent, indescribable, lured me onto a path of love and ruin. What is love if it is not devastation?
In her presence, I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with the taste of her essence. To exhale felt like surrendering my reason for breathing.
Whenever she disappeared, her scent lingered for a time. That was enough to keep me going, to make me believe I could conquer the world.
Yet, I wanted nothing more than to be in her arms.
I lived for it.
I died for it.
I endured the agony of love, the torture of desire just to be close to her.
I craved her with an unquenchable thirst that made tiny droplets of time in her presence feel like lifetimes, and I wanted to spend every one of them with her.
It killed me each time she departed, and I lingered in a purgatory of affection until she returned.
I knew nothing of heaven and hell, because she had not yet let me fall into her, and she had not yet cast me away.
Her scent was my gravity.
She was my drug.
Without her, I wandered aimlessly through the world and chased after her on a passing breeze.
In the darkness, when we were alone, her caress awakened my body. Her warmth soothed my soul. My lips fell on her skin, my tongue savored the taste of her passion.
I relished each moment and lost myself in her embrace.
She was in my veins.
She was in my thoughts.
She was everything to me.
I once was an addict and I overdosed on love.
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