The eyes are windows to the soul, they say. But that moment looks like art. It tastes like marshmallows and hot chocolate in winter. It smells like a breathless night, hiding under covers, knowing our bodies will meet. When Silence was the only language you spoke to me in, I became fluent at speaking Silence.

When you touch it, it feels like the walls have evaporated. There is no border, no boundary between self and other. There is no me and you.

Falling faster, flustered, furious at you, finding a first.. a first what? This is a fever. Madness has finally caught up with me. I studied madness for too long. I had mastered the art of words, of language, and yet language cannot label, cannot serve. It falls at your feet, ashamed of itself. Language asks you to forgive, to scoop her up with your delicate fingers.

Take Language, take the Story, take it all. Rewrite it. Change it. Make it mine. Make this ending mine. I am sorry, I am greedy, I am wild and untamed before you. You have started the fire, and it is a beautiful disaster.

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