|i travel the world in my thoughts and sometimes in reality, maybe we'll meet one day.|
sleep-talk.sleep-talk. by Pretty-As-A-Picture
isnt it curious how your fingers fit perfectly between each of my sclerous ribs, or how your breath mimics mine with belated accuracy
(count each breath and youll run out of fingers.)
dont you remember the fairytales?
(and they both lived happily ever after, until after ran out and the monogamy became as non-existent as the magic.)
you were never one for myths. with discerning eyes, youd plant kisses along the ridges of my back
across my shoulders
and the hollow beneath my jaw, questioning my pastel skin and every involuntary blink.
I am not a myth. Id breathe.
Even when my back wore naught but jutting wing bones, a street of s
the fluttered- a collectionithe fluttered- a collection by Pretty-As-A-Picture
Hear my joints dislocate, coming apart at the notion of sunlight. It falls and it settles in pictures of loveliness, golden tree branches and hints of leaves; of autumn, of spring.
I am so tall in the water. My legs are never-ending, crooked lines of peachskin- watching my fingers draw out ripples until they strain and buckle and fall into the cool. Ill touch my toes and loop my figure and Ill make giant ripples, abhorring fallen leaves and sending shivers of blue through his legs.
Its a faded crimson red holding my breasts, tugging my hips and leaving my ribcage bare to the current. Its smudged lipstick and smeared blood to him; its the soft of petals and the heat of summer to me.
With dirt up my thighs and crushed flowers beneath my elbows we sat in echoes of bark; lit with the little light the leaves could spare. We were a picture. We were lovers in the dirt, near the stream, soft nothing above and heaviness beneath us.
It came tumbling down by my
|inspiration, the most meaningful thing.|