The sound of this.
I need to escape from the reverberated, repeated, ear drummed in negative nonsense. I let ivory keys carry me away to a place that’s calm & wax-lyrically free…
The feel of this.
I want to cocoon into mink, to think between Egyptian cotton sheets & duvets quilted by artistic ancestors; let these living bones nestle into a mid-mattress solace.
The sight of this.
I endeavour to dry liquefied, blood-mapped & dilated eyes…to not cry for what I seek but cannot find within retinal memories…
– ***emotionally blind***.
The smell of this.
I must mask this musk; the permeated stink of rancid ideas inhaled that made me not breathe & wake up to a roses blooming aroma.
The taste of this.
I ingest the bitterness upon my upper soft palate, that’s soured with hard things swallowed – chewing the fat, I wipe away rotten crumbs from pursed lips and wish for something sweet.
The state of this…
