The Water Runs Rose

Perfect skin, a harsh white light illuminates no discrepancies. Rich wondrous eyes scan the shelves. Various vegetables are enlightened.

Television shits sound from the other side of the large open room. Voices significantly too excited shout the praises of multiple strips of pork affixed atop a hamburger. Hot liquid cheese product holds everything in place.

Soft, delicate ears prick up, caught by claims, intrigued by lust.
Desire flows through elegant arms. Slight fingers tap at the steering wheel and high priced boots tap the floor.
An electronic vocalization makes confirmation.

Bright white teeth sink through bun, bacon, cheese and beef. Animal grease adds to the congenital glisten of full fleshy lips. A waifish body tingles as sugars and proteins begin to metabolize.

Drivers seat all the way back, long limbs outstretched, the toes past the pedals and fingers reaching just short of the back window. One hundred seventeen pounds begin to feel like another ninety.  
Loose sweat pants tied tight over tighter skin. An otherwise flat stomach has an almost imperceptible bump. The curse of cognizance of self begins to tie itself to faint thoughts.
Endless eyelashes begin to feel far too weighty. Unblemished breasts break the high water mark of the antique tub. The water runs rose. As the blade slips from failing fingers it glints in the light of a bare bulb.

Old memories come flooding in where the blood flees. Flash bulbs and fawning photographers. Late nights spent crying in the dark. Slumber never finding its way.

Sleep comes quick and heavy this time.

sga is a no good nobody. He resides in Montréal


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