Dutch AppleBrandon Shimoda
It could be in a pool, or rather the turtle grass in the bay raising a sufficient ridge along which my finger rests, thinking it as string and quietly satisfied in the rumor that my hand has brought me. And then your message, no letter but a drowning: my skin sets off the goal of your fist, and there are parts of me that pine for things much further down where your breath could never reach, even if bent on the descending; you watch the reflection red. We have this new thing from the watering, in which I rest, though moldering within your core and slipping from your white skin; which, if available for the first and second, will be the third and fourth thing we've leased since meeting.
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