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She reappears in my dreams tonight.

The usual French braid she loves to wear falls over one of her shoulders, dealing with the abundant golden silk threads she possesses and resembling the pure aura that always follows her. Her shift white dress swirls lightly with every step she takes, and the ray lights that illuminate her path favor her tone painted by the sun, as her skin becomes the most beautiful painting among all. Her sedulous chiseled hands reach out, inviting temptation to outstand the electric touch she causes by sending waves of energy with the soft pressure of her fingertips. Her light pink lips mirror her heart-shaped smile, driving a winter breeze that blows our entire surroundings, freezing a moment for just the two of us to exist. She is perfection made in flesh.

You whisper her name as you come closer, being pulled by the gravity of her presence. Not my name, never my name.

Not in reality, at least. Does it matter? For I long for the dream to never end, for having the opportunity of being her if only then I can be with you.

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