It’s the girl with black hair and black glossy shoes that never fails to catch my eye. Every time her slim ebony black-tighted legs stride past me. Her tiny plaid green skirt wavers on her petite hourglass frame, swishing back and forth, like the pendulum she bought me for my birthday. With each stride she takes, she disappears further and further away from me. I’m dying to hear her greet me, all I ever wish to hear is the simple, “Hello, My Love.” That I’ve grown accustomed to. A part of me fears I may never hear those words from her again. I noticed her eyes are heavy and tired, her dark smokey makeup is invigorating. I just can’t help but wonder if she was awake all night thinking of me? I reminisce about a time when I was only inches away from her deadly beautiful face. A time when I was the beautiful face that filled her eyes with life, not death. But, God, if there’s one thing I regret more than any other is not telling her that she’s a masterpiece. I’d fumble and fall for her all over again if she gave me the chance. I’d endure the endless prickling pain of her needle-pin, thin, heels striding on my back. Oh, how amazing it’d feel feel to uplift her feather-like weight from underneath her; just for her to take her painful strides all over my back. I’d fall at her feet and let her stomp on me millions of times before I’d let my foundations crack. I’d endure ten million more just to see her light up-I’d do anything for her touch, even an unkindly, sensually painful stroke is enough to satisfy me…

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