What was that structured squawk of depth
So say it or
don't. Aloofness dangling from your neck. I love it.
Continue.
I recognize that you recognize that you are out of my reach. Oh.
You think I can't. Aim. Oh god, you're so elusive.
Should I expect you to expect your guts tin-foiled near the pan. Near cranberry sauce still can-ridged.
I don't have a taste for Turkey.
Just caves of flesh and impressions of this or that or what-ever. But I'll listen. You're clever in your mumbles.
Tell me how you love to fly again.
In all those hushes of air. Those breaths of air.
How you go through the trouble to try and trouble me with your air. Your air. Your air Your air.
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