| black_night | ||
| Death of a Rose |
it's just that when the fever falls upon her lips, it nothing more then a staccato echo as i walk away. in others we reflect our conversations, making black and white pictures the conventions our natures make. in the stares i pursue when watching them pass me these hidden messages, feeling my mouth dry in anger and helplessness. when persistence is lost and mutual trust lost i can only look at the photo's and wonder why. |
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