I wondered every night because you're effortlessly undeniable. I fancy the point where your lips begin to burn and my heart begins to yearn for a taste, all coated in chili and curiosity. Ulcers are coming into style they say but most likely you'll be coming in and out of consciousness at just the right time, probing the yellow jackets enough to mark your sibilance with sincerity. Write it up and wait. You couldn't create if they paid you to
Bullshit.
I should stop lying on this thing.
We are just underneath the morning side of the sunrise, and counting the pheasants who got shot in the night. I loved thinking about a tiny pocket of life wherein bark and leaves are the same, bushes and trees are the same, and you and me weren't…
I managed to fit an ellipses in this thing, just trying to extend your metaphorical "resemblance" to the memory that I harvested. This distraction is becoming something that might be too obsessive and compulsive to destroy any more.
It's all looking bold when I write it, like the letter each want to scream out their own story; a thousand little reasons why the moon has always favored the stars and the calendar numbers are no longer dictating my happiness. The wind is singing like it wanted me to be cool, and my sunburned palms don't hurt nearly as much as ink. All around, the striped, stripped off humanity is asserting its dominance with a leash and pretending. They watch me in a way that makes me feel akin to the termites that linger too long in windows and the aphids darting at the lemon tree. I might have been a pest, pestering at the oxygen that they had bought from the government before I was even born. I almost forgot what it felt like to be a child, and then I let you fucking kiss my face.
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