This about turn is the last on a road folding in on its
self. It was here, red cartons stacked, spring twine baskets spilling interlaced
joy raindrops on us. Take a good look cause the moments passing. Make amends
Nayha. This medicine isn’t worth all the grey sky in the foreseeable distance. Paths gleaming slipping touch.
Miss communication handed her tongue to the Cheshire and decided to collapse into herself. You leave a trail, an umbilical cord of innocence. The white naivety shredding against rough wind could it withstand another blow too hard? Blue is the colour of a throbbing tiny vessel hidden behind a pretend bright red heart.
Flowing ever so quietly turning ultramarine. You wont see it. No one will.
The sting of cold pins my blood pricks and bolts through this moment.
