(no subject)
you, outta my dreams. these are the things i call my own. this is the realm where you dare not tread. and then when i'm caught inside the feathery sensation i will be found where i was always meant to reside. this plume on which i sit, immune to your touch. it is through this illusion that i slide between your fingers and melt puddlesque into my own reflection.
there is not room enough.
mask wearer.
show me your eyes.
there is not room enough.
mask wearer.
show me your eyes.