Rye. And woods wry in the midst of June. Were magic ingredients for what I think is worthless physiognomy that seem to represent what I feel about myself.
I do not want to admit that my weakness seem to surrender itself at the bottom of your vocal chords. In the deadly nights of awkward silences when ants amidst the wilderness of bedsheets were aiming for the only shelter they had left.
I do not, or can not, even grasp the feasibility of why such an attraction exist.
If you would only just talk to me.
Please.
Currently listening to:
Anthems For A Seventeen-Year-Old-Girl.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment