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.