To the stories we don’t tell.

The illicit moments that carve the lines of our being.

Whispers of dark magic that pull us toward the edge of experience.

Where we bathe in taboos and emerge radiant.

The nights that drive us to our keyboards only to meet the fate of the backspace button.

We can’t just say those things in mixed company anymore.

Our greatest metaphors and sensory descriptions and revelations.

Etched in text threads. Soaked into breaded tapas and glasses of red wine.

To red lipstick and four-inch heels and hotel rooms and balconies where we touched the freedom we wax poetic about.

Delicious memories we’ll roll on our tongues and savor for the rest of our lives.

Memoirs we’ll write when we’re old and gray.


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