I speak of you, as a late night fantasy strewn between the beams. I speak of you as I speak of nothing else; permanent, granted, given and let loose. I speak, and you speak of us together, never intertwined.

And it’s good, it’s really good. It borders on the sublime but never reaches it, and we both like it there; on edge, never submerged. You and I, we keep our heads high, speaking of what we’ve been and what we’ll be, but we’d never dare tread the what we are. We know that it’s not a what, it’s a where. I know I’m half upon your smiles, a quarter in your grunts, and a quarter lost in between. And I know you don’t know where you are, but I speak of you to me, to half of your smiles, a quarter of your grunts, and the rest that’s lost in between.


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