She stands in front of me.

“Tell me me your desires.”

I am uncertain.

Persistent buzzing of a crowded room where bodies slither past other bodies, past us.  I swim intoxicated past my freckled face and see from outside, looking at me looking at you, pondering an answer.

Was it how I found you, slender ankles, sitting on a high stool, right leg over left, that made my heart stumble?

“To kiss you, there,” I say, pointing at a spot of skin just above your clavicle, so near your neck, which is near your mouth, which is what I really want, but such honesty has never been where we were most comfortable.


About Ryan Carty

There are some who call me, Tim?

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