You offer no cacophony, no salt to rub into her wounds. You offer to be cloud-like, superficial, with quiet insistence. And her heavy body and her heavy heart willfully seek your strong embrace, and the charm that radiates from your eyes.
She’ll sink to obscurity with this pulsating in her veins. She wakes from fevered slumber with this alien pulse, from when you have crept into her dreams and floated her away. And she puts this together with reluctant acceptance. From fear, from knowlege, from lines thrusted towards her then quickly withdrawn. The lines she knows by heart.
She is unabashedly accustomed to knowing she has weaved over first bodies, then heads, then hearts. You remain cloudy until pressed. And always a mystery.
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