I’m not seeing the pattern here. The way your fingers press and lift, caressing skin like you were trying to tell a story, like you were writing a letter in invisible ink over the curves of my body, hoping that somehow, it’d mean something to me.
I think, if you wrote a letter on my skin, it’d be a thank you note. Or an I Hate You one. Something sentimental. Like a break up, done in verse. Or a change over from across time – sealed with a kiss from a romantic past we never enjoyed.
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