They just want to be asked, ‘Would you care to dance?’
Instead it’s more likely to be, ‘Wanna go to my place?’
The corpse of romance trampled underfoot, bleeding out under the pulsing lights.
Desperately numb, they aren’t even considered. Buttressed by my own wall on the other side of the hall, all I can offer is my empathy.
Leftovers go cold if they’re abandoned for too long.
I know.
I am.