Sunday, January 29, 2006

From crush to crash (or I'll bring you flowers if we don't make it)

We crashed. Nothing seemed to make any sense. Nothing but talking unhurriedly. Nothing but fever, she said. Nothing but some hair seems wasted. I'll do it for the sake of poets and songs. I'll make it rime.

She smells like the flowers.
She looks like she's groing.
She looks like she has wings.
She can't leave the ground.
She wants it to rain now.

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