The full moon's soft glow illuminates old, battered tombstones as vividly
purple nightshade blooms, overtaking an ancient iron gate. Stars shimmer,
then fade above a twisted, mangled oak, and nothing can be seen for miles,
save two star-crossed lovers, lying amongst grass already wet with morning
dew, gazing upwards. All was peacefully quiet, except their voices, when
they spoke, softly whispering, commenting about said twinkling objects,
aesthetic scenery, or music, idly chit-chatting among professions of love.
Our romantics were more content than they'd ever been, just rivaling in each
other's presence, hair slightly mussed. He adored her. She loved him.
