quasi_sean

it's the mystery of centuries that do not matter anymore.

for one good reason and there
it is her
pushing the broken syllables from between her lips that are red like the kool-aid stain on your chin and she smiles that same exact reason i have left to live

and

there is nothing in the world to capture it in.
the hearts. mason jars. the tupperware.

inside it is her heart that dances a mad--leaking the last of broken from the cracks and it is mine that watches silent stoic but bursting inside from the heat.

captivating? oh so much more.

apples actually. that's how red they are--not the syllables or the sight--but her lips. cracking against my eyes.

there is a love that is there. we feel it in sounds & smells & the final apology from the gods.

i can be so bold.

tomorrow is each day closer to being safe again. to know words she'll speak before she does and know that it is those--

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assured.
no rest for the wicked this week.
unless museum death art is available.
*shrug*

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01 hour. till open the glass with my teeth.