Tuesday, 29 March 2011

Touch of no words. It grows slowly

This abyss ocupies too much space.
Suspended sounds of sunken times not to come. He came. Abysses came too. They came to me, they rose from you.
Sounds tickle my skin, my ears melt to melodies. Suspended melodies, melodies of times that will not come. Skin and skin. Skin that longs for the kind touch of no words. Touching with Fear of What Could Happen. Fear of what could happen grows slowly. Slowly it grows. And it tastes bitter. Taste of no future.

Don't start up a fight, you can just close them. I will show you. Close the door, close the window. Close. Close the whole house, close the curtains. Do not let melting ears and tickled skin feel the bang of your kind touch of no words on the wall. Shut, lock, enclose. And it tastes of no future. Nothing could happen because. It slowly grows. Lock it.

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