to the memory of my feelings: in winter the warmth of a tenderloin grilling by a rose with your stubbles set aside i only have one choice-- and that is to feel you. your shoulder blades, play as a shade-- covering a warm feeling.
they are warm daisys lasting in the dessert a taste of chilled ice, and pepper jack cheese squishing up on over that dried out asparagus.
one of me rushes as i am taken away by a multitude of endless gratification from the transparent infidelities of my makers lost brain. i own only the few signs and aspirations left by your shadow as you were laying your piece. a flaking suns set, setting up before the milllions of mushrooms and lilliputians.
since you like to save the day-- you save away.
i can not resist the race. or the taste- the imperceptible sound of covered breathing, or an empty feast, a wanting beat. my heart rushes as i miss you.
underneath our sheltered little shack gazing beneath our blanket of rocks lays the definition of broken mouths gasping. here we cry, as we try to escape the lungs of earth.
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