Red on the wet road,green on the commanded wheels,orange in the boot.
Vanilla flavorsin the love-bombing pagesof discarded books
Plump crimson tissuequenches its thirst with the bloodof long-lost chances.
such depths of feelingonly primitive and pureinto a soft sun
among our ownmoments when saying becameabout the bare room
It’s the season change
He thinks it’s his last winter
He lived a sweet life
He murmured to me.
Wanted to go to the rain,
Our detachment swordsmeet head-on, afternoon duel,bygone adieu.