[Throwback Thursday — Originally published November 2013]
As you determine which impeccable stratagem to implement on your unworthy adversary, I inhabit my side of the bed–clumsily, dastardly. Your prowess puts me to shame.
The clickity-clack of my extremities hammering faded vowels and consonants and semicolons and commas, in juxtapose with your fingers fluidly gliding over the lustrous and vibrant X Y B A, is abasing.
I seek affirmation so I pursue an exchange of vocables, but you’ve just been shot. There is scarlet splatter and ammunition debris and the structure harboring you is crumbling.
The intensity of the situation has provoked my tentacles to jangle their victims relentlessly, whereas your feelers collaborate with their comrades to execute the optimum victorious combination.
You bear no evidence of your close encounter, while I am left with an alphabet graveyard; leftovers from the hastily strewn together sentences and stanzas that were lethally wounded by malignant punctuation and erroneous syntax.
My body is being dominated by an outbreak of sudor and repentance. I muzzle my avidity for ratification, abandon my creation, and ensconce myself in your tattered comforter, and wait.
You decimate your foes with decorum and fastidiously focus your assiduity on me. I present you with the tombstones of my composition; survivors of the battle to depict my sentiment and attain an impeccable medley of phraseology.
You say you like it. This does not provide me with the reverence I desire. Your mouth is not as charming as your fingers. You do not grasp the subtext. Your mind is not as nimble.
Our demons cannot be vanquished with four letters and a joystick and the felicitous button sequence. But tonight, with the assistance of your entrancing digits, it’s enough.
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