The dying fire’s light, so tenuous and faint,
Gently reaching and withdrawing, begins to ensorcell us.

This drowsy enchantment is consented but not feigned.
We curl together, and dream the warmth to be sourceless.

Breath slows, eyes blink closed, our minds begin to fade.
The fire follows us down, it may as well be sorcerous.

Our sleep is deep, our love true, we claim this as our fate.
The fairy tale ends here, without need for a wicked sorceress.


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