twinkled harshly

I don’t want to chitter chat, she’s got to get out, make a change and it don’t make no difference I go running in outer space, see the love there that’s sleeping, bring back the nights when I held you beside me when you realize what’s been said I really want to be with you. The light twinkled harshly, Swish of a skirt leaned forward exposing the pale flesh of Silver’s thighs, long straight curved lines reaching from knees to disappear under cloth, lift a glass in slow motion staring through the roiling crowd, screening the individuals, dissonance as intoxication, thoughts lost off track, shining bright sparks of recognition, paper in my hands, slightly damp, torn in fits beneath the graphite tip striving to scratch marks thereupon.

Lord Malinov, Song of Songs

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About Lord Malinov

Lord Malinov, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet
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