175–190°F No Tongue No Teeth

Photo by Kamila Maciejewska on Unsplash

Late late late sunset, it’s getting so late, it’s never too late, on this lonely grass, on my itching almost bleeding knees, I slowly, began packing my bones to find a semi-sufficient-comfortable sit in increasing thunders and turned off my affection to chance, consequences revealed the man to himself, and your tears are irrigating the tiny grass flowers that simply got lost by hesitating gazes and snapping fingers to try to wake up right there, to hold your hand a bit stronger, just enough for you to feel my increasing care for the blindspot in your enchanted eye, I swallowed unspoken filthy words to forgive your “satin-white-generous-hug under-the-sheets-lie” since you respected my false-side.

And you sing, through misery, instead of falling.
What an ease, to see you blossom without me.