The revocation of gentle and calloused hands. No space for reciprocation when swatting away sleep. Small paper bags filled with confections; the toffee goes in the garbage. Unmounted filaments of paper hearts and string-strung blossoms. Amateurish and charming. Watching her move across cold tile in the morning. Dimples and curves, and demure coquettishness. Beneath her tattoos lay faint etchings of biology. Solipsism and bliss. And yet.
And yet.
1:41 p.m. - 2020-02-12
Recent entries:
Thanking the Pandemonium - 2020-11-26
Simplicity of Sometimes - 2020-11-25
Bubblebeams - 2020-11-18
Red Blue Green Purple - 2020-11-11
Too Young to Descend - 2020-11-11
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