i. you sit with some space still between you, and the gap is filled with lightning strikes. the bolts poke into your sides and run through your entire body. all you share in this moment is the air you breathe and the occasional brushing of pinky fingers in the static-y space where your hands rest; you wonder how the slightest of contact can sing your entire body electric. sometimes he flinches his hand away quickly, but sometimes you do the same. sometimes you both share a small giggle at the accidental touches; sometimes you don’t. ii. everything is surrounded by haze, filtered by the alcohol you maybe had a bit too much of, but it’s alright because he’s got you; he’d never even let a mosquito try to steal any of that patchy, pink warmth out of your cheeks. he’s watching you giggle and stumble over your words and letting you poke at his nose and admit how cute you think it is. he gives you a soft smile that you won’t remember, but you won’t be able to forget the feeling of his pores under your fingertips, face pinking up soberly at the thought of your own slurred utterances.
in the light of the twenty-third hour | Madison Cox
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