Comb
Rainy Day Melancholy
skyisacanvas
Half fiction
A flu called in sick. Over her blue dress. Spilled milk. She'll hum in the hummus of blurs. The paste taste of bed ridden head, hair matted coma. Life is watercolor, her dreams promise. She keeps waking up, she keeps proving her dreams wrong. And shit shit shit, this isn't it. She'll say to herself, while she's lying there. And something is growing, in a gray that grooms over the colors. A flu without hue.
skyisacanvas
Half fiction
A flu called in sick. Over her blue dress. Spilled milk. She'll hum in the hummus of blurs. The paste taste of bed ridden head, hair matted coma. Life is watercolor, her dreams promise. She keeps waking up, she keeps proving her dreams wrong. And shit shit shit, this isn't it. She'll say to herself, while she's lying there. And something is growing, in a gray that grooms over the colors. A flu without hue.