On a queue, I wonder if else drum the circulation
I could still love his prickling beard
Now the lane connects closer to the flames
Hence, the peak of my feet nail trips on him
He is on the pools of snow, while I shall bribe the sun
His smile butter me up on an oil
It taste numb yet too complete
It’s his hand stirring the selfless drools
I thought I’m breathing in soils of his arms
How does that ruins of skeleton trap carelessness?
I wished If I had disowned frying pan, oil and that flame.