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There were no chairs, a single couch,
brown the color of earth the color of warmth.
There was a breeze hugging my chest.

The curtains swayed to the sounds of the wind,
blue the color of the sea the sky, the color of the freed.
The foreign hand was tight around mine.

Two cups of tea stood on a white-clothed table, a
beaming white, the color of cotton candy and milk, a
tale of a tiny snow angel silhouette.
Too many fingertips stained the edge of my cup.

"Relax, we're just talking."
but the only words spoken were whispered protests quietened by impatient hands.

I do not riot until I lock my room twice away from hungry eyes and I bathe in the pleasure of taking all the space I crave when there is no one to occupy mine.