Dreamy paradigms prove difficult to live by when flirting with the future feels a little like lying. A deeply grooved proboscis wraps around my heart and tightens its grip when I insinuate someday. Ashed gray uncertainty deftly tugs me backwards when I slip.
Sans plans for the subsequent, what's the point?
The sex is good.
At what price am I lying to myself?
He wants to stay. Born and raised. And hell - we all know what I think of the snow.
Will I break his heart, too?
Oh, Hush now. We have weekend plans.