They are full, her lips, and painted a tacky flamingo pink.
They are moving, her lips, and a river of nothing is flowing from them.
I loved them, her lips, once upon a time.
Now they are growing still, her lips.
I wipe the tacky flamingo off them before I leave.
WiddershinsWiddershins
/ July 31, 2013My goodness, I do wonder what the story was … nicely done!
W. R. Woolf
/ August 3, 2013Thank you very much!