Conversing

We sat on chairs whose arms

intimately touched. Bodies turned

towards the other. Naked knees

grazing. Fingers separated by a

millisecond of space. Your crown

was a disheveled mass that gleamed

gold in the fluorescent lights,

while your keen eyes glowed green

with happiness ( like that of the mood

ring you slipped on my ring finger

on a past spring day in the month of

May) that I hoped was because of the way

my head rested on the back of this

pretentious, upholstered chair.

Willingly, I worshipped every glorious

sentence you crafted and stared in

awe as you impishly experimented with

syntax. My mind raced with words

that would conjure the crescent crease

on your cheek, but all I could say was,

“You’re crazy.”

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