The shelf life was enough to make you sick. Expiration considering
mentionables. The smell of soap in your hair stood at the forefront of
lasting impressions. I would walk away from this one briskly. Clasping
sweaty dollars in my pocket, writhing at thoughts of meditation. I
stare into the moon, walk into the ocean, and forgot why I breathed.
After the waves subsided, ripples tickled my toes, dripping wet.
Swinging necklaces over prisms, figuring the distance to the nearest
star, I'll never see you like they did. And you just may never see me
at all...
Wednesday, 02 February 2011
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