I would think that there was something new on the table. There were lovers and there were strangers, waiting, stale reiterations while they face outward in the same direction, which sufficed for that moment. Prosaic intonations withered between the spaces of your knuckles- the hinges of your lips a secret tragedy you were unwilling to forgo.
Every reverberation becomes a faint collision of desires where my fingers paint an outline; an outlier upon the indentations of your breath, coercive and abrasive- merely illusory. These sweep across the nights and wake me at Four like a demon at my bedside. But now as I wait, these banal but incidental silences, they make themselves felt through the way you look at me, smile and turn away right after. What a beautifully terrible way to pull me in further.