You've got no squeeze on your lower regions and you worry me to death.
I like to think I'm the same about some things.
You look like you smell like the stuff that makes the space between my gut and my heart tingle with numbness and uncontrollable awe.
A sign of that bad luck pleasure sentence I'd of rather avoided for the next 20-infinity odd years, if you'd asked me about it two months ago, alone in dark bleeding rooms I'd tied my head away from.
God does it make me reel and ***** nausea all throughout my nerves, our promise and the death sentence signed on in the small print.
Your uncertain confidence
My overconfident uncertainty
It's outside our bubbles and it seems to make me worry more.
you just pet my head and the smoke and sinuous void slip out and don't rule us anymore.
You make my throat kick out submission to the nonsense of mopping up needles spilt on a playground made up of such wavering lines. I hate lists.