I have nothing to say that isn't muffled against the stiff texture of your shirt, clinging damp to your fuzzy self. It is adolescent drivel inspired by fourteen hours of lovemaking, damp and dewy, sandwiched with wonder and desire, an ice cream sundae with cherries.
You rode in easy, a breeze on a sweltering day, looking like I thought you might: real, and human. With an easy confidence that spoke to the longing I had felt. Warily approached long distance, hoping the thudding I heard was my heart and not yours. My own I could account for, but yours, a mystery yet to be discovered and revealed. I visualized wildly behind my closed eyes, toying with a playful and fierce premonition of déjà vu. Who could you possibly be, and who do I think I am?
I hoped you were the one I have been dreaming of, and not the one I had made up out of nothingness and hope. I wax gooey at the reminiscence of the moments before you arrived. The pleasure and pain of newness blending into a cognizant soup
ready to serve...in vast open tureens, clear and frothy.
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