Still I won't let you bend the meaning of my dishes. What do you know of concupiscence? We fell, and sometimes my head throws backwards. You asked, but what does it throw?
I placed a finger over your cold lips, I had to listen closely to some memories I'd been avoiding all day. We've got the stuff, we've got the stuff. You kissed me and it felt like a smoke alarm. Your eyes are looking translucent today, but you still feel like a dream.
You built me a pedestal, but I was high on stilts.
YOU ARE READING
Flights of Fancy
PoetryThere is another dimension beyond that which is known to fictional characters. A collection of short stories, poems, snippets, vignettes, and everything else that crosses my mind and has no place in my current publications, or is waiting in the wing...
