Image Source: Eman59's photostream
Our skin is water, violent as oceans without destinations. Moonlight pulsate through branches, leaves, the tangles of your hair. We're in for something sacred, conditioned to open night's altars. Gecko sounds furnish some missing rhythms in our hearts. There are no desecrations. We're paddling through waves in us, further in their violence. This isn't escape. There are no omens anymore. Just humidity fizzling out beneath our skin, like news of casualties becoming irrelevant.
