Ask about her. Speak the language. Go deeper into nightfall. Balletic cries. Aesthetics, right? Nothing means what it did. Nothing outlives criticism. And we live to appease each other. I was near the gates, upchucking guts, smelling vomit. I don’t have to tell us. We’ve knitted afore the brains of miseries. Everyone is screaming, our shared quintessence. On a sunny day, palming feelings, mind-terrors into persistence. Russet petals; midday resolutions. I sit and gaze at an emotion—everyone is listening. And wanton for happiness, captured by countenance.
