Slow feelings reverberate, and gleam
like the sheen on a half-moon face.
Illiterate hand tucks beneath her chin,
and the softside thumb brushes tender curves
above slender jaw.
Five black eyes look up sadly, and
tilt to the left this time.
Breath upon breath,
hand crooked in hair.
Small, fragile, bittersweet.
She sighs, her chest swells,
and with strained neck,
tastes to tell you, that here,
beneath solemn branches,
she feels happiest.
But something that should
be slow, goes, and spins
ahead to reminiscent wake ups,
and teary day dreams.













Comments
--
Then I went down into the basement where my friend, the maniac, busies himself with his electronic graffiti.
Finally his language touches me, because he talks to that part of us which insists on drawing profiles on prison walls. -West Rider Silver Bullet.
--
Hannah: *confused* But, Jesus doesn't have a penis!
Donnie: I would fight a rabid hyena for your vagina!
Sarai (me): There comes a moment when you know you are going to fall, but at the same moment you know you have to fall to survive it.
--
...if only two thousand miles weren't so far.
...the written world is a far better place than the present...that is until the writer decides to switch things up a bit
--
Then I went down into the basement where my friend, the maniac, busies himself with his electronic graffiti.
Finally his language touches me, because he talks to that part of us which insists on drawing profiles on prison walls. -West Rider Silver Bullet.
--
...if only two thousand miles weren't so far.
...the written world is a far better place than the present...that is until the writer decides to switch things up a bit
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