You still owe me a midnight confession.
Wrong number — I told her.
I don’t think so. You read it. That counts.
I should’ve stopped replying.
Instead I asked what confession.
Her answer took a minute.
What you think about when you’re trying to behave.
A photo followed — just her lips near a glass, eyes over the rim, direct and challenging.
Call me, she wrote.
Let’s see if your voice matches your restraint.
My phone started ringing before I decided.
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