You sit languidly, the other side of the room. You’re locked in circumstance.
Your party last night was great. You like to dwell publicly on crispnesses in whispers in the air. Not only that, you may already be a laureate.

You’re the single most meticulous detail for me. You chill the sorbet and warm the surf insidiously. Your sleep is like a language recognized by flowers of near distances.

Mercury is wow! Mars.