He tried to pull her hair out from beneath his arm— though she stirred and drew closer to his heart. The night became calmer and her rhythm became a shallow void in his breast bone. Again, he brought his arm up to claim whats rightfully his, only to have her slip a hand underneath her own locks, bringing them up over his chest like a map of soft skies. He looked over at his night stand, two shot glasses marked with an L and R— her contacts making a home in otherwise chaotic vessels. He smiled. He fingered one of her curls between his index and thumb, as if he was going to smoke it— as if he was going to write her an invitation inside of himself.

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