Lingering.

I resigned myself to the awareness of the futility of evacuating you.

The firmness and solidity of your frontal bone on my lips is the poison nourishing the nightmares of waking up when I'm precisely 0.36mm away from brushing your vertical or horizontal smile with mine.

The scent of your scalp in my nostrils invaded the country of me and planted its banner, never to leave.

I don't blame you. I reached that point in which I know what a waste of our brief time that is.

What be your blame? Having wit, poise, savoir-faire, pheromones? I'm guilty of that, too (at least, of the pheromone part). There's no room for blame in me.

After having met war criminals (true), I would say I have a very high threshold before I think of passing judgement. There is NOTHING you cannot tell me. Nothing.

No, not easy. Not for you, nor for me.

I look for a joke to bring a smile to your lips (either set would be fine, though I aim for both), but I can only come up with poems in MS DOS while my dreams keep bleeding out of my eyes.