I imagine it's cold where you are, with your words like the sun through a car window in the back seat some Sunday afternoon.
You compensate with conversation for an environment of ennui and dilute your simulation of the forecast reality.
Silence on the other line is an invitation, I wish wildly.
Calling all cars, we've a collision on the information super highway.
Let's pretend we're kids and then say you and I just met; except we didn't meet as children so let's do it all again.
Rocks
in nature are your friends and line all your bedroom walls like stoic
guests waiting for an invitation to begin devouring your style.
If I could guess your favorite color, I'd have to stop and think.
I am the architect of linaments, at least until your stitches took.
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