Cross country

He was the placebo. She was the disease. They worked together like a mutation to a virus, multiply... multiply - ensure the placebo doesn't become immune, absence pulls her far but she confuses it for fondness. Experience the pleasure of sour contentment. Overripe oranges too sweet to be eaten decay with time. Beloved envy, envelope them; stretch them, tear them, pull them lovingly apart. Spite, drama, infuriation, let it populate their senses. Drown them in the passion.

You're too sweet for her, too ripe, too committal. She wants to be diseased. She desires to decay. Would you leave her so that she would contentedly die alone, or would you rather stay to provide her life, bombarding her with spry displeasure? Dismount, knight. Go your merry way. Find another to pacify with your 'genteel' behavior.

"Are we goin' cross-country?"
"Fo sho."
"Aw, geez."