Lightning enters the windows through the shadows of a home. Our home. We sit in the dark, highlighting the cracks surrounding holes you threw your fists against, crumbling youthful walls, missing the mark on my face intended by the hint on your lips.
I’m tripping over your stupid love song as the dark clouds wash over your sunny day. This house is burning with passion; a reason to makeup with sex on the kitchen table arrived another night. Your moans drown the guilt we’ve got in our bones. She’d squirt on that god-awful tablecloth her mother gifted us.
(© 2022 AC)
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