Non-transformation
There's almost no point in pausing anymore. The instinct seems to either have it or has developed an expertise in faking it. Surely the conscience can swim through the shallow pools of regret that continue to develop in the attic, ego pushing forward, waders on, wiping the sweat from its brow.
It all actually comes down to sweat, doesn't it? How can we prove our love without the visible proof of effort? The enamel on my skin, its finish, a fine layer of salt, water, and toil.
At your behest, in the waiting room, I'm forced to pause.
The sweat dries. And somehow, the love remains unchanged.
It all actually comes down to sweat, doesn't it? How can we prove our love without the visible proof of effort? The enamel on my skin, its finish, a fine layer of salt, water, and toil.
At your behest, in the waiting room, I'm forced to pause.
The sweat dries. And somehow, the love remains unchanged.