Goodnight

 

Your soft secretum was carved into my clavicle by your feathered hot breath. The endless ink quill quilted the fragments of our future and blanketed my fatigued figure before I slept. Clairvoyant bed time stories tattooed over my scared bare skin let me taste the paradoxical pain of your whisper. If you could feel hope it would be this sensation. If you could feel hope it would be this sensation. If you could feel desperation it would be the sensation of said whisper licking my ear drum, writing score of a beat too complex for any of my arteries to articulate. If you could feel desperation it would be this sensation. If you could feel hope it would be the sensation shoving me over the edge, screeching for you to get out of my bed and the fuck out my head.

 

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