I’m itching for the phone to echo The Click with its tone on low. A responded text, in her preppy tone, would do me well. I’m begging headlights to grow brighter as they approach the driveway to the front door like spotlights of us having sex in your grandfather’s barn. We’d be crisscrossing passionate elevator floors. We’d trip through turbulent white lies without a charger; our bodies connect the passion, burning doubt to a puddle of evaporated goodbyes.
(© 2022 AC)
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