"And what do I say to that now?" he asked her.

"Say what you feel. Tell me what is real," she replied.

"I can't," he shot back.

"Why not?" she urged.

"Because I'm not sure what we are. I have no clue who you really are. You change so fluidly and suddenly, like the colours in the sky. One moment you're the soft pink that I wish to see grazing against your skin and the next, you're the deepest shade of purple that I want to sink my teeth into. One day you're like sunshine and honey and daffodils in the breeze and the next, you're like the cold dark waters filling up around me.

There are days you make me feel as safe and anchored as my tongue buried between the warmth of your breasts, and then there are days when your side of the bed remains creaseless and smooth. I just don't understand you. How can I tell you what we are?"

"Fine," she said, as her mouth began to leave a warm trail from his chest to his inner thighs and her finger tips began writing a story of their own.

"Don't tell me what we are then... Just tell me what we are not."