a few separations ago, we subsidized our familiarity for contempt - an initial intention in immuring impression with intricacy. it outran us just like everyone overtook us, undoing pavement overtures. so what do i expect this envelope? what do i owe this effort? have you finally learnt to manage expectation? to what do we drink tonight..
the morning's grim. the rum evaporating your words. nouns pronounced to unsettle weeks. it demands a reply. maybe grotesque in prose and objective in satire. letters have a knack to unlearn easily. they twist and when unread by the author, leave open an imagination. this one's an exhibition. it simmers greed and inculcates desire - "you made my attitude suffered painfully that evening, cherished every night since". to post must've taken courage, a broken bone in reverence to every evening. its stuck in your whims and my fancies. the author doesn't take the reader for granted, for the author knows how to frame these lines. the sock's delivered before the calm, melancholy ridden ploy. a trait well embodied every time we exchanged back then. its a type i still cannot get used to. for the author doesn't challenge, she merely preserves the unbecoming. some of the best dialogue interchange has bent itself a beat, clawed and extemporized. surfeit in endearment, its unpunctuated to the best of her abilities. it doesn't confirm your company and strokes this heart weary. the enthusiasm is clapping and mending to that bone. a tranche settled out of interest. so i'd be grandiose in explanation too, chipping away on an open field.
she's lying on the grass, eschewing nondescript paragraphs. she clutches the thumb, now a conclave caught in critique. adulation is dressed up too, circumventing my opposition. an imposition one submits to. however, the sun ray's are at a preferred angle, the quickest draw vindicating any hope of harmony. that moment could have been forever, had the hills stood still. that tempting cache of inadequacy, a feeling of guilt she contains and won't admit. its holding us thin. its not the words that make a difference, its the tone. how often has vulnerability been? it needn't. a comatose privy to this despondency. calculating each stab by time, the sentences are deviously serenaded. ah, that uncanny ability to deceit, conjuring indecent theft. you're more than a metaphor in my most important phrase. sleeping on stoned grounds, sunburnt and clipped.
we will meet soon, i'll make myself and we'll hardly say anything at all.
finally, you've written me.