Bex from the 592

Limerence is adamant about hunting

me. From each of my successful evades

spawns a face of more delectability. Bex

wears that unique cadence-deficiency crafted

by Yorgos Lanthimos, without its inherent

contrivancy. Her emotions are fond of his aesthetic

as well. “I’m an atheist,” she said. “Does that mean

we can’t get married in a church?” I replied

to my shower tiles, two days later. The reveal

of the red tattoo on her wrist

was the springboard

I was so vigilantly searching for

to toss my unashamed

flirt-bit onto: “I’m thinking about getting one of those

on my face…” Yorgos would be impressed by her

deadpannedness. “I’m thinking to get ‘Bex’ or ‘Becky’

right across my forehead…” 

Maybe a flirt barrier is

an understood consequence of an accent barrier.

“...That’d be sick,” she replied, this clone

of Daisy Edgar-Jones

with a nicotine addiction.

Tomorrow, Limerence and I go scouting for beach locations

ripe enough for a wedding venue.