we smudge against each other, the thin upper epidermis on the back of my hand running a smudge against your pores. the distance narrowed, reality runs a rim between us again and we move apart as if on cue.
***
your words, like flat stones, are what i turn over and over in my hands.
i trace the base of the stones and graze my fingertips over them. i observe the nuances of the stones, the way your words change when i play them over in my head. i imagine words not said, words exchanged.
we could have all the time in the world and not a single thing to talk about.
to sleep, perchance to dream.
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