Her touch was like the mountains,
Dangerous and rough.
He always weathered away but never got enough.
His smile was like the sun,
Rays of golden light.
Look too long you’ll be sure to lose your sight.
They were the sky,
A high flying dove,
Crashing to the ground,
What they were in was not called love.
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This is the first poem I wrote when I thought about starting to write again.