Untouched.
The slow caress files the roughness of his skin like sandpaper. The dryness of his skin, the desert that is his soul.
Unwanted.
A paperback that never left the shelf. The guitar with a missing string. The hollow chest, stripped for parts.
Unseen.
With a voice that was never heard of, with a cold body, translucent and lacking energy. Smoldering, with a flicker of barren beige.
Understood by none.
Under the impression he will never win.
Underachieved.
Yet,
Under no circumstances ready to give up.
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