ripening's perfect colour
treesplit your lightning touch. fingers paint a brushfire. I can't sit still for nothin' when your eyes wander through my wheatfield body. coughing sugarcane to break silence. we're growing tall grass, but walking slow between. I used to reach for thin air, but recently found a hand with actual working fingers to squeeze back and guide me safely. there's nothing better than feeling small and curled in a gaze while I survey back the entire map of your black magic face. knecking and nothing but alive. golden flecks and vivid dreams - I'll tell you everything.