His stillent, smally whispers ooze into my mindconscious like a dusk-sweet hotchoc,
like a mocha sunrise welcoming wide with embracements louder than fearage, not instructioning, but come in mending,
pushing enlightenmentations, praisements and incouragabilities that I inseep onto my naked black and bruises.
I tremble-wrap his echo within my born-worn soul but he stainleaks through my weak cardio when I bumpbrush against heartbeatings as fraggi-brittle as mine also.
His hushed shade cools and breaths an enveloping:
"I understand."
And so I restilax in his softly stronging arms.
Sometimes we know we're not making any sense, we just need someone to understand.
