History Book – Letters Unsent #5

It was raining and the Spring was so young, it clung as a shy child, leaves near bursting, lime pustules, dotting lanes and veins of my drive. Insert your pulse, you grabbed my jaw, both hands, and palpable breaths, percolating  far too long, they too burst, against a wall, and halls, hands grabbing walls, you inside, me-nowhere to hide. Were we not so tangled, this web, surrogate to all world pleasures? This history book…I want to read it, again. 

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