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Question Mark
Wiping my eyebrow, some self-produced rain came over my half-wood-hollow.
Dozens of towels, my living room sofa brown uncomfortable space shaking ankles turned a hotel service room service, (Service twice but non of slavery, free will, we speak truths around underwear secrets, I fucking miss you my little charm, wake me up before you go) I am doing my dirty laundry, these trail run socks, I might toss, as some Indian tea with a sprinkle of spirituality won’t harm, a cloudy day, I must clear some sky, Africa.
Free-verse, some fashion tags I carry the other way around since Atlas misinterprets the heaviness.
I promise to carry on, carry rocks and your overgrown romance, but one thing just one thing, the one only thing I must question, and maintain a caressing blue low flame, is eternity.
Dance with me, under the sand dunes warm grains, the end of our warmth. I am a witness to your undying beauty, I am mad, at you terribly, sexy yes, but mainly a closer hug to say I am sorry.
Hand over all your pain.
Your mad love I train, and some irresistible flaws, to contain as the ocean took me, drowning me in a platonic motion.
Exclamation marks are overrated.
I quit certainty and marry this big Beyonce-mental-mess questionable sass.
“I only answer:
perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…But if you really love me?
say yes say yes say yes”
