A strand of threads on that corner. my arms are weak or I had loved that canvas all along my breath. somehow I need to get rid of it. Last time I bought the best cleaning agent. yet, its drilled on Bermuda of walls, cannot be sought on glass power. That corner where I had been is occupied on something I despise the most- a strand of thread drawn by crawls. Likewise, the stains on his grins.
I got a hammer, breaking the top-notch edge. I’ll water my bed and doze off on the floor. I can see the two pokes on ceiling, laughing hard, I could breathe underneath pillows. Not his stains again;
When he goes to bed, he crank volume high on coldplay songs. he hums within me. a lullaby for my sleep. Now that two holes have peek insomnia, where I have my issues on sunken glasses,where, I check a lock twice. I have been hating Coldplay all this time, being his gems, my appetite on his full.