Pure Mud
Fall, breathe. Rise still.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Warm
This is the smell of electricity.
The spaces between our fingers
burn themselves up,
moving too quickly to contain
themselves.
But we pull away,
and the air sputters
and mutters its inaccuracies.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Newer Post
Older Post
Home
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment