Love is tricky between royal cobras.
They eat other snakes for breakfast, each one a menace in its own right.
We both have perfected camouflage. This slightly-smaller cobra walks into the midst of things, and is learning to look like a branch.
It's the surety of knowing the venom in my fangs that tells me it's not a necessary thing. You've seen it, too.
And I won't sow a whirlwind for you to harvest. One learns.
There's no need to pretend, and I don't.
It's impossible with you, as you see through me.
I'm babbling. If I wait for you at seven, I'm happy from the day before.
And I cannot contain my happiness any further than this.
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