Walking, Breathing Paradox.

You make me content but not content enough although my heart fills with joy each time you breathe in my scent as I walk past you on a Sunday morning with my hair glinting in the sunlight that made it through the cracks of our solid passion, but I’m not content enough. Not at all.

You make me mad, but I can’t stay mad at you although I internally scream each time you strangle the love I have for you with those lengthy, abhorrent words of yours which I explicitly begged you to cut out of your vocabulary last Sunday evening, but I’m not even mad. Not at all.

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