Vitals are always so warm to the touch. Our gazes are both crooked, yet mine is extremely focused on something that is growing more curious by the delightful mauve socked second. At this point, I have forgotten about the stagnant pool that I am wallowing in and the drippings from my mouth. Tasteless and exponentially quenching the warm clot careened down. Many things about this encounter didn't surprise me. It was like the large, now lilac, sky. I have seen all the sun rises, let alone sunsets, in my time. My time has been short, nevertheless, longer than a memory. The forgotten pool of pink and black lies cool, to the growing pale hands of yesteryear. The quiver, as though they were the only body part left out of the cover. That reminds me of the quilt that someone made for me as the copper dough bronzes our faces.
Honestly, I thought I would remember you, but this moment of truth came just as fast as it went. I do not exactly cave more of this. It bored me, or maybe it was just you. Your blank gaze gave me no toe-curling delight, even for the simple seconds that we spent together in the obtusely, thick wood.
Now, that this is over and done with, I question the validity of all this. Well, you see the wood that we danced through, holds this much rusted colored earth would not produce a Thicket that feasters as this one that is before us. I know this is a minute detail Good Sport, but I feel as though this changes everything. How could the intense bush be here with the soil composition at hand? I am afraid that my validity has been compromised.
