I'm looking at pixels and all I see is your eyes. Maybe it's the fat lips on filament that I'm craving most afternoons. Sometimes your face looks smashed. Sometimes it looks cleaner than elbows. I don't see those ridges and revines past my hat rim. Did I really know back when you were giving lip hair and height measurements? I've grown to not lunch shorter than you.
Thank you for telling me what not to do last week.
My ankle is better with zest and pepper. Your face is redder with Bengay. Buckle up and drive me off the deep end of the Jacuzzi sunrise. Summer breeze had me hanging in the window on a Friday night.
Let me know every thing's alright.
That smile waiting in the kitchen, butter and warm won't leave my pancaked fingertips and focal points. I'll relearn my body with the black and blue. It's just my contact endorsing moisture partial blindness. You might have to put a bag over her porcelain head and close your lids and think of me.
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