All the Heres.

Stomach pressed against the brown paint, smooth in all it’s colour. Sinking, sliding, then up again.
Blonde strands flattened in a spray of neutrality.

Flames in the corner of eyes, flickering a smooth that saunters forward and upward,
in dual time.

Distant and music climb into your sound sight.
Slow warms into slower and beats of heart are lost among the fumbling of falling down clothes.

Here I am.

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This entry was posted in Journal.