| holding the floor |
[Oct. 8th, 2006|12:00 am] |
I'm sliping in-between my fingers and I'm feeling - they shudder. Trembling shadow of the moon on the dusty wooden floor which voids are filled with faiding line interpretations, shaping your hair curls. Shuddering hands long silk cuddles and body who had been left in the second place in this thought smoky room longs to hug and feel the expression of the world's animation again. Mutable sound of the pictures drones in the head. They are changing one by one, though, keeping their constant perfection in their entirety. And it's useless to torture myself making the thoughts to look through the dusk tucks, cause what is meant to be is meant to be. But behind my eyelids there always will be your eye reflection constantly droning.
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