The words that dropped from my lips were laced with glamour. An unseen mist but breathed in by my beloved was all that I could emanate with what few syllables I could utter. What joy is there in isolation?

Their words were the briefest perfume I ever chanced to smell; brief, but honest. You can never hide your inner breadths and the breaths that keep you held together like a foggy glue.

Blue raspberry and then fifteens and suddenly my whole being is enamored of a scent that is not my own, swirling wisps of a greater, higher being. Alone, yet conformed to a blue caterpillar's wanting to leave his wall-less house yet too afraid to step one toe into greener grasses.

What beauty is there in smoke that infiltrates the mind and bares the soul? Reader, I'll tell you. It is the minimum of affections we are bound as beings to release, the inner crevices of the mind breaking free into a form more beautiful yet formless, more intricate yet dispersed than the mind itself. How is one to define this glory?

Inhaling these words as they are increases my inevitable downfall, and I can more clearly visualize my ideals crashing on the shore of my rising chest like bombs on a beach. Yet words, words, flavored words.....everyone believes them.