six
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Eight: Extremities armed for the call of the wild; the hunter marches.
Seven: Strings fanning into the damp corners of cardboard castles.
I'm sitting hereStaring at walls and Scribbling at thoughts. This is when I imagine you, and Your unique, soft kiss that twists and turns My thoughts and causes my doodlesTo turn pink and red, Little spots taking over my mind, That conforms in you
Here am I, feet buried to the ankles in the sand
Caliced fingertips stinging
Playing off the beat of the tide
A rhythm fit for a slow dance on the beach
I shift from chord to chord, loving every second
I don’t know which I care for more:
The sewing machine on the shelf
Or my starving piggy bank.
All the different settings
Sing songs with lyrics
That are in a different language
