(Untitled)

[spray_of_petals]

The arthritic fingers of the oak branches were clutching at the powder blue cloth of sky, so different from the brilliant blue of summer when dirty streaks of sweat mark boys faces and the sun cooks the asphalt until the rough part of town smells of tar and dust. Today everything is taking on a surrealistic feeling; a combed cloud looked so close I

Comments

[bruised]

hi jess.

[spray_of_petals]

*waves*