Nothing
If I could but whisper these words in your ear, ever so hushed in phrases of lulled simplicity, I would. Our faces would not meet for a moment's intimacy nor would the overtures of conversation be exchanged; steeped in cacophonous distraction. Very truly I assure you that not even for a moment would my hand rest in confidence upon your knee - seeking the refuge of your gaze; nor even would I fathom the seducing of your attention, juxtaposing intent with desire.
A stringency of posture circumvents the earnest pantomimes of my disparity; our form perfected by the habits of pretend. Yes, though we be groomed impeccably - the couture of ersatz emotion - we are disheveled souls; rigidity but the citadel's of deprivation. Alas, are my postulations preposterous in merit? When shall I succumb to the anxiety's of this torture, this self-inflicted plight? Am I not perfect in appearance?
Seated are we two in flawless discomfiture; criticizing the swirls of wooden floor and gaunt of our physique. And in such a manner will time contract as do the waning remnants of our endurance; the flicker's of impish light taunting in sequence. Your chair and mine shrieking the infinitesimal delights of acknowledgement, aghast at the mere publicity of such imperfection. So as reverberate in tremulous ecstasy veracity's delights will I whisper to the echoes of deceit: "I'm scared."
Silence.
There is no citadel to fall in glorious raptures of defeat - for I am alone; my hand groping the imponderable depths of void, where now I know not how to thrive.
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