We spoke like we always had. Our words free of inhibitions. Even when our last breath felt used, we found some way to take advantage of time. Vulnerable to any unconscious meaning our tongues might make. We didn't care that the others left us with empty chairs and extra space to feel alone. No, no. It was us who became closer. Not them, living life from the inside; never sharing the stories written on their bodies. Indulge me with this vowel around your navel, and I'll tell you how it feels seeing these scars around my thighs. We bared our skin, and never heard silence. Our bodies led us. Even though the night was blind. We made out. Gestures, I'm talking the subtlest touch, felt out the pitches. It was dark, but I saw you perfectly. No, not another ideal situation. And we laughed - barely - pretending it was a joke, that we didn't have our ideals. Yes, we wished it was easy to take ourselves lightly. Then, together, we stopped laughing. And smiled with everything we had... left.
If this isn't real romance, what is it?
If this isn't art, I don't know what we are creating.
If this doesn't show itself, then I've never seen genuine beauty.
If we aren't feeling the same, then I want to know what it's like to be in your body.
I want to come inside.
It was dark. But I saw how you touched me.
I felt the feeling you felt.
The feeling we will never be forgotten.
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