murklwhip

[schaufemweg]

don't ask me how her soft presence touches me, how her sharp soul whets my dull-witted embers, and don't listen when i say i'm the Puck of a Shakespeare staged for squirrels in a secret chapel on a sleeping midwestern college campus every time she presses my hand. hear not when i tell you that when i kiss her i taste leaves, that when we lose the

Comments

[nachfolge]

oh brad :o) how wonderful.