Of Languid Colours.

1 /2 /3/ 4/ 5/ 6/ 7/ 8/ 9

...And then, I wonder how I'm going to walk away from this whole and clean.

I want to forever inhale you, as if you were a magic potion of rubies and jade that would rid me of the contempt the young have for convention and help me get knee deep into the guts of existence, like an insect boring into an apple. You're overwhelming in an underwhelming sort of sense, if that makes sense; like a glitter explosion on grey, the sensation of uprootedness when you're firmly on the ground: adrift when anchored, you're like breathing underwater realising you're not in water.

Rephrase, paraphrase and try to make sense of non-sense.

There you are, half a world away, even though you're here; mastering decadence and art and car accidents that keep on crashing deep in my throat with the grinding of mechanical romance between organ and bone. So sinister; so sorry to see the sea swallow us whole. You talk tales of sinking ships, and making love to strangers and what's it like to be loved with metallic lust still on your lips.

People like us, we view the world through meretricious sepia-tinged lenses that apotheosizes every flaw, making existence excruciating, much more than it actually is. People like you and me weren't meant to exist in this realm; with morbid shuffling of feet on salmon-coloured linoleum floors, gum stuck on the bottom of Prada sneakers, with sweaty palms on receivers.

We are purple on grey, a perfect imperfection, an oxymoron out of Pandora's Box.

I should've kissed you when I could. I should've kissed you when I could. I should've kissed you when I could.