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I don’t want letters roughly strewn in mechanical language that douses coldness upon eyes that are soaked in distrust.

Call me.

Your voice will do in this separation that needs phone lines to resolve, not the pitiful finger work, revealing more of why we don’t work with each or anyone else.

Call me.

Scream it out and permit me to do the same in public places that teach bystanders what passion sounds like when words are better as weapons of accents, intermingling for the wins.

Call me. Dial. Hit buttons.

I don’t want letters, messily assembled out of the frustration of speedy vomit, sprayed about screens that are tiny enough to decrease panic of what will be if we refuse to echo the divide between us.

You can really call and listen.

You can listen and hear the pain, instead of running with words that are small enough to hide the shame of hiding.

Call me when you need to say what you prefer to send in a dreaded format that never emphasizes the bravery of tackling live monsters guarding dying bonds. They fray under the wilted methods that give unrehearsed monologues the power to fade away in deletion. We began with uttered sentences of beauty. The ugly was left for assumptions and the quick glances that did the talking. The mundane carried into bedspreads with coddling after body exercises exerted fluids of pleasure that bathed away troubles.

And now what is left is the dialogue of split halves that remain sore from gripping devices of prophecies that have already come true.

So maybe, don’t call.

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