And when it all comes out distorted, I can only push pedals into thin dying embers, green leaves sprawling like crepe against these creamy moon-spotted shoulders. Tighten grip and squeeze liquid from eyelash corners; an all-knowing pinata hanging low at the base of the cerebral cortex, waiting for a fatal blow, where innerds go spewing satisfactory.
To touch the flesh of a certain exterior would be...a nebulous activity...haywire, dizzy, dreamy. I imagine faint curtains sputtering quick to chase night-stars from a blackening horizon, and your hard fingers slip through red silk.
Connotation.
Intrigue.
Don't put the light on, I only want a spark, a crystal shard glowing juxtaposition with white.
mass-produce words. Chew an earlobe.
Tangled between the palms, a c-shaped thigh, and little pearl earrings.
Luscious beneath black.
Comb your nails on someone's back.
Hotel sanctuary. Keep me. Closer.
Don't swallow whole and then spit up pieces.
I want.
Originality....if that is the proper word to use...
Is this the start?
I jump to conclusions.

I'll dive next.

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