22 Hours

Exquisite.  Treacherous.  Tranquility.  Ambivalence.  Admiration.  Passionate.

The view out your window whispers EXQUISITE thoughts to my ear.  You are here beside me, tucked gently into the nook created for us deep within a nest of pillows and red wine.  I can feel AMBIVALENCE coursing your mind, even as your skin inhales my touch.  Some part of you is away from here, where the confusions drain into a pool of enigmatic salt-water purgatory.

There are brief moments where you allow the TRANQUILITY of you and me to wash over the obligatory behavioural conditioning passing for past tentacles presently holding you stationary.  We take each others’ hand and leap blindly into the sky, free falling with TREACHEROUS abandon towards a cold hard reality.

If we could hold each other PASSIONATELY, if we could make ourselves like red hot meteor rock hurling into the atmosphere, maybe we could burn brightly through the surface upon landing.  Maybe we could evaporate the salt-water purgatory, or sear the tentacles, or scorch the obligations.  We could be the light.

We could, but we don’t.  Your eyes smile instead as I read yet another fairy tale about magic and bliss, and happily ever after.  You look upon me and those far off stories in tepid ADMIRATION, and I can’t help but think that someday soon, my special friend, you will become sufficiently bold to set yourself free.

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