Lost and sound.


Snap your jaw back into place, and wipe the bloody saturation out your eyebrow.
You’re almost about to die, good times. Dodge the piercing punches, like mouths that are virgins to tongue kissing….tell me, is something missing?
Do you need more sauce, are you satisfied with living? What about death to that sadness that you’re so lucky to always been given, gave, you caught the same catch many times; you think you’re satisfied? I’d hope so, like snow which skips across your bridge, and melts down your nose…you’re there..I suppose.
But what if I handed you water, and told you it was our moonshine of life? Would you hold on to dead flowers and say “I’m your wife…I’m as sharp as a butterfly”. You smell so androgynous, and look so pungent. Take my hand..and go back to the fight. Dodged the blows, but the words still shattered your space…and with one final kiss…I cracked open your face. I sent you flying, nose first into the ground, and all you could do was admire the sound…of crumbling you, and concerned me. Felt the top of your head, got back up, and fell again…falling in love with us. What do you think about that?
Because I’ve been thinking about the ways in which………………………………………………

-Richí

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About Oil Underneath

I drink glasses of cold water.
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