Writer’s Block

He paced all morning, never far from the window – stopping every three or four times around to peer out, stretching his eyes for a glimpse of her, but she was never there. When he tried to write to her even that didn’t work; what he settled on at last was writing simply “Your Valentine loves you” before he folded the scrap of paper and pushed it through the bars, to drift like a butterfly to the ground outside far below.

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Love Song

Sweat glistened on bodies joined in carnal dance, trickled over softly rounded landscapes, dipped into secret valleys, while the frenzy increased. After echoes of the last soaring crescendo diminished, the slickened bodies separated, heartbeats slowed, and passion cooled the weeping love had ignited.

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