The afternoon sort of romps exist only because there is nothing else to do, and even more so because nothing else can be said. Stuck together and tightly wrapped between the layers of sheets, skin and sweat and then more of these puffy flakes of half-truths that lay softly over, it’s just impossible to peel myself off this mess. The breath on my skin and your smile on my jaw and your lashes grazing my cheek… please, please stop writing. And then I open my mouth to try and say something; but even before all the words can escape my mouth to travel to your ears, all you’d rather do is to quickly catch them and keep them safe as they tumble right back into your mouth. Naturally.