Tiny clouds of texture spiral out of the wax, as I project my inner oxygen towards the lanky rope inevitably sticking out from the midsummer's night
It's only job to present my world with the glorious sent
I dip my fingers in, one after the other being sure to let's the wax dry before coming in contact with any other surface
I feel it's smooth touch run across my face
Even though the waxy dream has all run out, the sent never escapes.
YOU ARE READING
some bad poetry
PoetrySometimes I stare at people, oops. I don't really want to publish a lot of these, many of them don't make sense, even to me, and I'm not the best but whatever
