Dear Lover,
The splashing of the ducks….meant nothing to my ear, was a sad, sweet song, was tranquility.
There was a slurring again…wine swirling around a corked bottle, the tinkling of water reconnecting with a manmade lake. I think you were yelling at the break once more. There was something about how slutty I am and how I choose to be a whore…but the splashing of the ducks was tranquility, and I bathed with them in the current of the bottle, and thought nothing at all of tomorrow, and thought even less of sorrow.