When you say you’ll be over soon, I want to say that you can only come over if you promise to communicate. Instead, I say, “bring wine.” When you ask red or white, I say for you to pick. Red; red means purple mouth like bruises still fading out.
We are existing in that tense before-the-end.
Holding one another for hours. I don’t know why it makes me so anxious to lie there in silence; I’m flinching away from intimacy like it had any intention of being rough with me.
I don’t know if I really like it rough anymore or if I’m scared I’ll break under soft touch. We are breaking, but I’m still keeping you close enough to draw blood.
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