They share sporadic moments and evanescent embraces, not a life in consecrated matrimony, as much as he might wish so. She kisses him as gently, as ephemerally as dew spangles the petals of a spring crocus, as if she knows how powerful her grip is on a heart that he only half regrets is so fragile. Their time is but a midnight tryst no longer than a dream, as he knows she’ll inevitably wake, gallop into the aurora after her own dreams, and abjure him, a candle burned out just after nightfall.

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