A few days ago, my writing and I had a long conversation. After a heart-wrenching trial separation, we decided we were indeed meant to be together. Tho the context might be different than expected or perceived.
We will still see others, we concluded. For during our distance I began a torrid affair with paint. And although nothing has yet come of it, clay and I have been flirting, shamelessly, for months.
She's a dirty girl, that clay. Not the kind of medium you bring home to mother. But then, I like that about her. 3rd dimensionalism is hot.
I told her, my dear writing, that I would never betray her again. I would not judge her too harshly nor deprive her of discipline.
I would neither confine her to the cluttered walls of my mind, nor force her to stand, naked and shivering, at time's doorstep.
I will not hide from you. I will not deny you. I will not allow you to be compromised.
You can only be you. And I love you for that.
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