I’m a sucker for the broken and the beautiful. Imet you on a random Tuesday. You said hi orsomething like that, but all I could see were your lips.
Lips that spoke in code; lips of imagined lustlips begging and pleading for me to linger longerlips pouting and preening, a warning sign for me to go.
Seeing you, standing there, in the corner of the roomreminded me of the sparrow I found in my garden once.It’s little wing broken. Honour demanded I rescue it
from a potentially grim fate, one grey, one tabby,one black and white. I found an old shoebox, scoopedthe bird up, squawking and panting, it cowered in the
corner of the box all feathers, fear, and desperation.I secured the lid on the box, poked a few breathing holesin the side. The bird would be safe to heal its wounds.
Your lips demanded I do the (dis) honorable thingwith you despite the ring around your finger.
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