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Tango

In between pauses of suffocation, there are stolen little glints of ecstasy. There is nothing symbolic about my wanting you to be inside. Really, nothing. I categorically put on various masks of defiance, the occasional frown is perhaps the only one you noticed. But there is so much more than that. On the brim of explosion I suddenly recall this one time when we were both right there, on the exact same spot, sipping tea from two cups and sitting 2367 meters from eachother. That picture is sacred to me even then. But 4376 heartbeats later and here we are. The contours of your body threaten to engulf me but all I could do is quiver. And ponder. I am trapped in a mindless quest to find out the sources of my obsession and bemusement, the alpha and omega of this operation seems like a chapter out of a tragicomedy. The beauty of oblique indulgence lies in its expandable possibility for positive reinforcement. The funny thing is I don’t crave anything beyond the dangerous volatility of verbal reassurance. But damn do I love your eyes when you utter those forbidden words. Soft and encrypted, hard and dancing.

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