The bridges were nigh and I felt a cold breeze. The waves were churning into themselves while the salted crest of the skyline sun was setting and I became immortal while I envisioned your melting arms passing through me like a supplemented submarine. Perhaps that was my only wish. I was crashing into abyss passages colored gold when the phase of the moon hit sanctuary purple, hazing far off distances with common misplaced verbs and a touch of awkward tension.
“Why are you so far?” I asked, and the only answer you could come up with was because “That's just how I feel”.
When the distance itself is hard to bare I remember that forget how incredibly lonely I am when I am with you.
There tends to be this dash of sensation as I picture your monotone devolvement placing its inner thigh on my listening glands.
Thats right, “I’m listening” I would say, and you obviously knew what I meant, but glanced over your shoulder in a 45 degree angle and whispered sweet chilling words of nothing. Perplexed by the great empty moment, I sat patiently, peacefully in my own retention.
Wind is like the virtue of a spoiled child, wild in craze and familiar with solidarity once it has been soothed by ambiguity; Still distraught by confusion as I checked the time, and the stars became almost lucid, I was anxious and headed nowhere fast. As I got up and rightfully walked away, your blank wave expression emulsified with the intensity of your dull narrative spirit. I felt so warm in my discretion; like a fat kid indulging his blob of cake batter appetite. After that, the immediate sickness of overeating while secretly wanting to vomit. I wanted to purge your very existence and flush you down the toilet of mutually exclusive metaphors. Chances are, I’ve just been gloriously fucked by perpetual signs of the times. Never play russian roulette with pixilated pretenses of comprehension. Trivial pursuits in all that cross-images consistency of happiness attains certain liberties and freedoms.
This time it left a sour taste in my conscious afterthought that this was all just a fettered fleeting friction of baffling concepts that made a moist morning feel like a desert in the winter.
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