Last night I turned and turned around my middle axis with the resignation of a rotisserie chicken.
you sleep.
I looked at you sleeping, all back, like a wall against which oratorio pull ascent Meanwhile the sun goes down and someone comes.
The road from your left in the ford a chance of not getting wet on the current calm continues, but the erect hairs that you insisted upon my breath.
you sleep.
Tomorrow never came. The clock slipped under the bed forced me to count the time from the folds that my breasts were squatting on the sheet. I've stripped, left to breathe the air of a night that was going on around me. I've seen them look serious
your back, pull a ball against, look around if somebody came.
I saw them as children fall asleep lulled by the rhythm of my heart.
I have put off everything. I was alive, lymphatic, childbearing, hormonal and naked right behind your shoulders oratory.
Alone I looked, I saw, I looked.
you sleep. If
had thee awake, so scandalously naked and unusual, you'd rumbled or made love, but you would not have asked for, nor smile, nor the night with me making you lived closer. This
thought I sucked his brain from the left as you do with sea slugs, you can stay there over the first hour of draw from something.
of a sudden it was daylight. I do not love you anymore.
you sleep.
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