She ties the last button, where the sleeve ends and sweeps her flowing brunette hair back away from her pretty albeit unmade-up face
Eleven in the a.m. and she needs to feel all of these things that he promised he might bring – a romanticised war with W. D. Auden’s words, a lukewarm cup of coffee whilst getting to smile into these utter rapscallion eyes – seemingly heaven-sent
Always with the heat one way or another
Searing
Meant to be this way, he flicks a very last Marlboro cigarette in her glancing direction with an index finger pressed against a quivering lip
Only ever in jest
Next he does the same only this time it’s his cold-as-ice breath – getting there slowly but oh so surely – which will linger ’til cascading down upon her collarbone lying newly bejewelled above her about-to-be beating chest

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