pressure me on purpose with that sarcastic tone, knowing later you’ll think about my hands and whether they’d grip you the same. had i softened? did you wish that i had?

you wanted the driveway at twilight. you needed white wine and classics and music to which you could sing along. you might even dance after a few glasses, but i’d better not pressure you if i had any intention of living.

i required a single inhalation of lavender. the rhythmic sound of the wild becoming tame was purely an amenity.

“are you awake?” came a whisper.

and somehow, through a sigh,

“the moon is…”

i'd be thrilled to hear your true, uncensored thoughts. i'd also love to read your writing.