Bathed in moonlight, you turn to shades of grey along with our mood. An animated discussion on the art of writing somehow morphs into an intense debate on Blanchot. Your conviction scares me. Words breed more words as I attempt to decipher, disentangle, and delineate my own clouded thoughts - but you're passionate, and my argument, weak; you wear your heart on your sleeve, and I can't stand the sight of blood. "There's such a great divide between what you want to say and what you do say," you tell me.
And I ask: "Am I still staying the night?"
"Only if you're going to lie to me some more..."
"It's much too late to be so clever, dear."
***
Seventh chord arpeggios in the morning. I awake to find your tiny fingers dancing gracefully over the strings of your guitar, each note clear and true. "You play so perfectly, beautifully - most people could only be so lucky to wake up to such sounds."
"You'll stay for breakfast won't you?"
"Only if you're going to play for me some more..."
"It's much too early to be so nimble, dear."
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