Thursday, January 5, 2012

Mouth to Collarbone

There is a window seat on the possibilities. Breath the particles of the sad taste and struggle no more. We could make one hell of a catastrophe. Beautiful everything, on the brink of someone else's speech, I hope to know you wouldn't be torn. Not that I am already standing for the fall of the other life, but like night and day, best thinking and actions and decisions are done during the night. We cannot be quiet and we cannot resist the touch. Do not think I want you hurt. Would there be much pain, for you? I would take the hurt away, this is a little maddening and morality is playing a strange part in our lives right now. The ethics of what is going on counteracts with the swollen craving on the back of our hands which are conducting us to become peaceful. The peace is laughing at our abomination of it's methods and I cannot help but be the viking hippie after your body and heart, all at the same time. Making wishes, eating all my vegetables, I think this could save the time I want to stay there, with your slack mouth - sleeping face of the warmth that is evident, sleeping grip of a evidently heart spun being in a slowing action of simplicity. To be. Just be. The simpler things have become simpler. Your body plays a detailed game of twister on my body. Eyes to neck. Mouth to collarbone.

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