and we’ve got bombs,
truth and beauty bombs.

and we run our fingers through our hair
to look up at the sky

and i count clouds and you count birds,
little birds and we eat blackberries in the snow.

reverberating theremin, oh honey bee buzz upon me. sticky ginger strands.

her own delusion. her own mistake. rub the flesh on your teeth til there’s nothing but skin.

his lips are like her lips. she reaches up to touch his cheekbone, her bracelet calling pavlov’s dog. his plastic and her soft fingertips, an inprint of such a distinguishing mark in a place they’d never look.

the most ideal state of mind can be acchieved, but it’s always better or worse than you’d expect. dissapointment more often than elation in her case. vice versa in his. maybe that’s why they fit so well together besides their puzzle piece body parts, but who knows? he doesn’t love her, but he keeps her company. so maybe everything’s alright.