It's a bloody dance along the riverbed of diluted fantasy. There's a world sick with your sights and sounds, breaking through the shattered ground. Forgiveness isn't given in lucidity.
And so all the streets are darkened by your black eyes and delicious French kisses until the day comes for forgiveness to be given for free and our livelihoods to once again keep us alive.
They have forgotten how to dissociate the elegance from the illusion.
Oddly enough, the way the Frenchman holds his head is beginning to resemble that of your nightmare and the rest of my imagination.
Simply put, however, she's remembered that there are still plenty of thoughts that don't have to remind her of you. Or youth.
Because the Battle of Gettsyburg and the left-over human smeared across the stones that watched in silent horror, there is a monument to commend the remnants of something long gone. And she's grown too big and unsure to give more than a though to her childhood anymore.
What's your excuse?
Elegance isn't lucid any longer.
The shade doesn't even protect you from the sun because the world just loves to watch you age closer and closer to the last breath we all take a couple moments after our birth. But I'm mumbling about the weather and making a difference while you hold everyone else close enough to matter. The overhead bins have fallen open and nobody is altogether sure where they are or why they've come.
It's all in her mind while she dreams.
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