What's love when the apples and oragnes have no flesh
And the rest of the world is under durress.
Gunshots.
Loud.
Bounding against my eardrums.
Hovering over the sun.
It's a shame, the rest of the world can't feel this
Be apart of this.
I love to love her.
Like red loves a rose,
A rose loves a thorn,
And a thorn loves to prick the fingers of the unwanted.
She has annointed me with the harvest of her adulation, affection, friendship, passion.
Her sentiment.
