#colicgreymelon

[colic-grey-melon]

Borrowed image, feel free to credit.

[colic-grey-melon]

Borrowed image, feel free to credit.

[colic-grey-melon]

Borrowed image, feel free to credit.

[colic-grey-melon]

Here floats my paracosm in the sky that knows a perpetual dusk. Filled to the very bulging brim with cloudy figments trailling like filaments. They signify my many guesses, stabbing into the ether, at the one true sight of Your once frail fingertips, following words on the page of that far-too-advanced-book You couldn't put down, age nine. Yes, my imaginings permeate Your childhood and they breathe life into my sorry soul. i could have told You then, had i the dulcet knowledge over Your existence, You would be beautiful, and probably already were, most mesmerizingly so, bright boy sitting squarely in the somber sand, sighing more dramatically with every passing dream. So, i would have told You, with the similar certainty i deploy when i tell You now, that Your particular temperament, is something just short of sacred. And my bare being pullulates with the yearning to know You. Deeper still. A widely spread book of hieroglyphics and overrehearsed non-specifics. My core curves both concave and concussed, towards Your composure, yet my arms turn to dust, each chance received at embrace, i break disgraced at my cowardice in fear of showing You just the right amount of care. What i fear is to drown You, whilst in the poised process of parting the very soul of my seas to let You pass unscathed. Having Your pardon, reflect on the walls of my squall - It would be too much. i shift into Love's shape when around You, piercing magnetized gaze, downwardly directed. You may never know, nor feel this pull, but it is as present as the force that beckons an entire migration homewards in a perfect pattern. When i sometimes press to my crooked clavicles the cleverness of my favoured spellbinding soap, i peer into a mayhemmed daydream, in which Your chin would dig into my voice and pretend to borrow my sound, my humming soothing Your slow dance slower, whilst keeping my most grateful composure. Often, in passing, i can breathe the dark woods of Your mind, still trailing from being ablaze and all i can think to scream is to show me. Instead, i beg for You only not to see all this. And i retreat to my books, in which my beloved words lie alone and waiting in their lissome lilt. And oh, how i sigh, about how Your name, alliterates with Love.

[colic-grey-melon]

[colic-grey-melon]

Here floats my paracosm in the sky that knows a perpetual dusk. Filled to the very bulging brim with cloudy figments trailling like filaments. They signify my many guesses, stabbing into the ether, at the one true sight of Your once frail fingertips, following words on the page of that far-too-advanced-book You couldn't put down, age nine. Yes, my imaginings permeate Your childhood and they breathe life into my sorry soul. i could have told You then, had i the dulcet knowledge over Your existence, You would be beautiful, and probably already were, most mesmerizingly so, bright boy sitting squarely in the somber sand, sighing more dramatically with every passing dream. So, i would have told You, with the similar certainty i deploy when i tell You now, that Your particular temperament, is something just short of sacred. And my bare being pullulates with the yearning to know You. Deeper still. A widely spread book of hieroglyphics and overrehearsed non-specifics. My core curves both concave and concussed, towards Your composure, yet my arms turn to dust, each chance received at embrace, i break disgraced at my cowardice in fear of showing You just the right amount of care. What i fear is to drown You, whilst in the poised process of parting the very soul of my seas to let You pass unscathed. Having Your pardon, reflect on the walls of my squall - It would be too much. i shift into Love's shape when around You, piercing magnetized gaze, downwardly directed. You may never know, nor feel this pull, but it is as present as the force that beckons an entire migration homewards in a perfect pattern. When i sometimes press to my crooked clavicles the cleverness of my favoured spellbinding soap, i peer into a mayhemmed daydream, in which Your chin would dig into my voice and pretend to borrow my sound, my humming soothing Your slow dance slower, whilst keeping my most grateful composure. Often, in passing, i can breathe the dark woods of Your mind, still trailing from being ablaze and all i can think to scream is to show me. Instead, i beg for You only not to see all this. And i retreat to my books, in which my beloved words lie alone and waiting in their lissome lilt. And oh, how i sigh, about how Your name, alliterates with Love.

[colic-grey-melon]

Here floats my paracosm in the sky that knows a perpetual dusk. Filled to the very bulging brim with cloudy figments trailling like filaments. They signify my many guesses, stabbing into the ether, at the one true sight of Your once frail fingertips, following words on the page of that far-too-advanced-book You couldn't put down, age nine. Yes, my imaginings permeate Your childhood and they breathe life into my sorry soul. i could have told You then, had i the dulcet knowledge over Your existence, You would be beautiful, and probably already were, most mesmerizingly so, bright boy sitting squarely in the somber sand, sighing more dramatically with every passing dream.

So, i would have told You, with the similar certainty i deploy when i tell You now, that Your particular temperament, is something just short of sacred. And my bare being pullulates with the yearning to know You. Deeper still. A widely spread book of hieroglyphics and overrehearsed non-specifics. My core curves both concave and concussed, towards Your composure, yet my arms turn to dust, each chance received at embrace, i break disgraced at my cowardice in fear of showing You just the right amount of care.

What i fear is to drown You, whilst in the poised process of parting the very soul of my seas to let You pass unscathed. Having Your pardon, reflect on the walls of my squall - It would be too much. i shift into Love's shape when around You, piercing magnetized gaze, downwardly directed. You may never know, nor feel this pull, but it is as present as the force that beckons an entire migration homewards in a perfect pattern. When i sometimes press to my crooked clavicles the cleverness of my favoured spellbinding soap, i peer into a mayhemmed daydream, in which Your chin would dig into my voice and pretend to borrow my sound, my humming soothing Your slow dance slower, whilst keeping my most grateful composure.

Often, in passing, i can breathe the dark woods of Your mind, still trailing from being ablaze and all i can think to scream is to show me. Instead, i beg for You only not to see all this. And i retreat to my books, in which my beloved words lie alone and waiting in their lissome lilt. And oh, how i sigh, about how Your name, alliterates with Love.

[colic-grey-melon]

When you know, but you know that they know as well, and You know that they know you know, yet both know that knowing is not enough, although merely knowing is all either of you have the courage for.