Love is Love Whether Machine, Mistress or Madness

There’s a spot on the small of a woman’s back where a distinct divot slopes down like a smooth hillside, leaning into flesh like a sleek asphalt spine that hugs a sheer ledge, sweeping long and true against vast and incredible curves.

There’s patterns in the concrete and blacktop dressed in both broken yellow and solid white lines down roads whose rigid yet fluid engineering resembles a perfect French braid that lies down below the neck of a fearless and wondrous creature who is either leaning headlong into danger or hanging on for dear life.

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