Could This Be Love (Section 7)

We coppertaned, Natalie and I, sunning on the roof of a curbed tidepipe runmill and we discursed loaf withdrawl.

“Do you suppose we’ll ever loaf again,” she quandaried something snuffy.

“You know these brown nosing essers…”

“No, Billy. In English.”

“You really want to risk it?”

“I’m tired Billy. My mind grasps at the old days something…God…there I go again.”

“Keep talking like that and we won’t either of us have to worry about being tired ever again.”

“I don’t think I ever really loved. I never thought about it. I just did it. I don’t know.”

“Natalie, one thing I learned from watching you…we don’t know when we love…we love…and other’s receive the love…and then…God willing…they return that love.”

“Billy, you told me when we first met that people only want to rip your eyes out and shove them down your throat while they cut off your balls for looking at them wrong and reduce you to ash over and over till you can never return the favor through a long distant descendant one day.”

“Natalie, I think we’d known each other for at least a month till I opened up that much. I know I’ve never been that dashing at first encounter.”

“What happened Billy? You were the brave one. Now I have to mention God first, while you look over your shoulders and hold your breath for the guard to come crashing in.”

“Patience, God will be real again… Only a matter of time for the virus to take effect.”

“Oh God…Just because they say…”

“Shh…don’t say that word…Sure we’ll be found then.”

“God is real.”

“That’s why I’m afraid, Nat.”

Pit’s head popped up at that moment from the trail way climber.

“What two poofs do you keep tripping, hear me some angle whiles, doth to risky means?”

I growled in his diapered direction.

“Poof begets they upon us when preparing desserts and dietary mints for after hour playthings in hoof begons. Now Get!”

Clink clank real giggly left the tin roof when Natalie left a humpy dump disasster calling the dry rub no longer applied, I nurtured no longer turned to her not to rub or touch or forboth for future tenses.

Thanks Pit, sport, I thoughts. A double dose, perhaps an old crease crept in then and a parroted frequency lept upon my upper brow, I noted not as the sea crested in the distance, the brine on my eyes rubbed my skin something wetted and I tasted the salt in truth.

Lonley may dreamed of days such as these when togetherness mad dashed for murderous revenge as everyone insisted overcrossed.

Forboth the closest I came ever to forgiveness only pressed me further from, into a dark abyss that grew brighter in the depths of fun.

This nightmare, I failed to address often though I considered the possibility often enough, it may be the truth, not reality, that I never pondered or bothed.

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