I feel like a toffee rose petal with touches of the snapdragon blush brushing into burnt umber somehow and barely holding the weight of water droplets that have built up, piled on, drowned me from years and years of thunderstorms
and yes, the title is like that for a good reason.
'We discovered that one of the strongest links among us was questions about the morality of what we do: when do you press the shutter release and when do you cease being a photographer?' - Greg Marinovich, The Bang-Bang Club: Snapshots from a Hidden War
recurrent moonlit distractions captured by words tied down into morsels; separated and concealed, contiguous yet sheer greetings of each other’s skin had left wanton burns and gushing streams of a brooding lover’s propensity for unsusceptible matters of the heart.
there, he stood, on the precipice of tomorrows; ruminating and scrupulous, forlorn yet never dithering over mundane and quintessential quandaries of the tepid gloss of incertitude dangling off syllables dictated by sordid agony.
there, he stood, in the midst of everything; from the otiose adoration poured out of empty caskets to the lenitive shades of his eyes.
with the ripples of moonlight, the gestalt of doleful flower-like hearts, there, she stood, and waited.