Excerpts from some times in April 2014

Worry of what you might say fills my mind. Run your fingers along my back, scratch my spine, linger at my wrist before you admire the curve of my hip with your wrist, but do not say a word and do not ask me questions, for I have no desire to speak.


I don’t think I’ve heard the word “love” used so freely about things I do or make someone feel but never once aimed at me for who I am. It’s a declaration of his attachment to the pleasure and nothing else.


She said “What if I never know?” It was the only honest thing she ever said.

“You can be in love or you can be friends,” he said with a long forehead and short mouth.

This conversation never happened because these people do not know each other.


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