The Touch Before The Wilt

We have hellos and goodbyes for a reason; we arrived, we met, we talked, we parted. You and I know how time ticks and never were we allowed to keep something, even the slightest touch and breath shared, locked up in a box, eternally.

But here I am so listen out; hands buried inside the pocket of my jeans and I’m asking with a swelling pride and overwhelming arrogance in my chest: can I have another five minutes to keep your fingers tangled against mine? Just five minutes, I’m not ready to let you go. Not yet.

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