My finger hovers over the delete key. I press the space bar instead. Try to get some distance between our vowels. The consants hover like dead air, sandwiched into adjectiveless verbs.
Non descript.
My serves are caught in the net. There is no bounce back. No love all. You are not clamouring and I am not clasping.
We make a fine pair, you and I.
I could pour all my passion into the sand. See the red on red reflected. Slip sensual somethings into my tea like artificial sweetner. Spend nights alone in my room with ribbon, chiffon and lace, seducing the mirror, relishing absence. Tasting isolation so heady I fall back onto my bed.
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