The prepositional phrase looked up at the adjective clause cuddled comfortably beside the semi-colon. Sweet bliss and torture it was for the little prepositional phrase to watch the object of its affection looking so smug. The realization of its position dampened its false little hopes: never would there be a day when the two would cuddle side by side, completely content, with only a mere space between them.

Despairingly, its letter squeezed together, agony spreading through its chest, its poor heart constricting. The parts around it rolled their I’s dots within their O’s, weary of the prepositional phrase’s depression, long since unsympathetic with the things it wished it could be.  

Crystalline blues eyes suddenly came to stare at the sentence up on the whiteboard. Each clause, phrase, individual word straightening upon inspection, and yet the woman frowned, her hand leaving behind a disarray of graying blonde locks.

Why was she frowning, they wondered? Was the hand in which they were written unintelligible? Was the infantile comma clinging next to the T tiresome both to eye and tongue?

She brought the eraser thoughtfully into her right hand, allowing it to linger for a moment. A smile.

Screaming from the depths of their letterbellies, the massive black collection of

words disappeared swiftly from sight, the woman’s hand rapidly working to match the speed at which her mind was working.

            “Yes!” She whispered hurriedly, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. It was perfect, oh so perfect. The prepositional phrase merged seemingly effortlessly into the semi-colon, sensuously warming her most sacred parts.

            “Yes!” She whispered once more.