Nougat like lips cherry candy.

Nougat traces blush on existence.

Jolted knees, a glistening mind, an abandoned heart.

Hollows rush, subsume serotonin.

Throbs, nicotine throbs the heavy reluctant pulse.

Destitute.

The smile

lacks, lacking

Authenticity, of

the eyes but a whirlpool of suffocation. Release.

Releasing.

Plum jars of

blemished crimson water, water

stained and speckled with

Droplets formed from the vacancy, vacancy of

Lips cherry candy.

Muddied waters,

Hesitating, resisting at the

crippling isolation of a

Knee jerk, jerking into the duality of

Self-absorption,

Self-reflection.

Claustrophobia,

Suffocating, penetrating at the slow release of echoing and bellowing,

Self-disgust at the confining narrative of

silence.

Comforted when the pitiful gloom of loneliness becomes paper blank,

wafer thin.

Malleable marzipan,

It’s all very pink.

Heart of two souls, fragmented to the sub-letting of the

White blank walls decorated

with rose freckled nougat. Invariably unhesitatingly.

When lips cherry candy become cracked and chapped and torn and worn and over worked and patch-worked and

as the muttering of figures and re-worked figures and endless calculation of the numbing realisation that it’s more than existence

On a marzipan

Bed of

Myself.

It’s all very pink.