the senses at war with decorum
i walked past this woman today who, unsuspecting with her back turned to me, possessed the most beautiful head of golden orange hair. i fell in love with her and almost touched her shoulders and kissed the back of her head.
one of my friends put her face too close to mine once and i almost kissed her very romantically. my eyes fluttered closed for a second. rachmaninov drew the memory out of me some time later and i wrote about it all over my shoes. i could see a white moon (the only moon) through the window and i wrote about that on my shoes, too.
it seems to be due, the moment when i will fall in love with the back of your head or the skin of your forearms or the hair peeking out above the collar of your shirt like it was that one time i had to bite my tongue to keep from touching it.
i can see why putin kissed that kid's stomach, i would have done the same thing.
one of my friends put her face too close to mine once and i almost kissed her very romantically. my eyes fluttered closed for a second. rachmaninov drew the memory out of me some time later and i wrote about it all over my shoes. i could see a white moon (the only moon) through the window and i wrote about that on my shoes, too.
it seems to be due, the moment when i will fall in love with the back of your head or the skin of your forearms or the hair peeking out above the collar of your shirt like it was that one time i had to bite my tongue to keep from touching it.
i can see why putin kissed that kid's stomach, i would have done the same thing.