What’s the reason for?
Have a seat. Closes door. Lead shoes. Argyle socks. Feet flat on floor.
The ideas come and go streaming through the air like the handsome filigree of breezes blowing.
Invisible.
The hand is rushing to the comfort of wringing, clinking, clanging; always needing, ever growing.
The nerves, they tingle. On tides of emotion they mingle. The flushing face belies the coy dog’s kiss.
Clueing in.
She shivers, ashen, cinders fluttering down, bespectacled fear, sort of never even considered this.
Pen is leaking. We’re not speaking. Intonations. Incantations. Tele-graphic mind wavers. Take note.
Key in lock.
Crossing the chasm, wielding the sword, feeling for change, purges urges. Minds on words we wrote.
Détente. Tongue to socket. A missing tooth exploring nerves, not fully prepared for the ecstatic sparks.
Fading chains.
The stream dreams between the brains bountiful harvest fertilized by bloody wounds from earlier larks.
Press the flesh, printing press heating words into howling friction, treasure trove, orchestral maneuvers.
Wishful thinking.
Wot?
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