the soft lip of the shoreline bending down to meet me and you. or was it 'you and i'? the syntax of identity a mess of curves and sheets where sighing meets with indecision and indecision yields against the tide. the soft tip of your story that i bit -- -- or was it 'bite'? when I stand still my feet sink deep beneath the layers of your sand. so hold me close against the current, i draw you in amidst the gale, the first soft sip of sunlight that we share between the two of us. the one of us. the core of us, no clouds and such, in sharing understand each other.
The quiet lies - we don't need to talk about it anymore Don't need to figure out the truth Don't need to look inside our heads and in our hearts…
I was wrong.
Everytime someone died. color and breath, the fast unfurl of carbon away from death plants that rise and grow, strange citybomb beneath…