She had a purple door knob,
I should have known by then.
She had a purple coloured door knob.
Nights came with no lights. Moans and slithering odours, pumpkin like; cold sweat like and erratic stars like.
Air between her lips never let me close the door.
Besides, intercourses… Broken bones like intercourses…truculent, ephemeral and crestfallen.
Sleeping between her Junoesque breasts, I would have conquered the days and the oracular existances.
Ah! Fragile, yeah that’s the word to describe my eluding topaz.
Only sceptical orgasms and self inflicting pains beneath this swallowed gutter now.
It has always been about fights.
Yes, it is.
And I am having one with my aberrational state.
That door never gonna be closed again.