Textling #62

Some days better, daubed with cerulean blue, others so bummered that air and atmosphere swag on you. Cold glory – the room as if swathed in coarse white sheets; the shapes of fixtures, body, bed vague in same old snugglehold. Not much to entertain: twinned wilts and rises, breathing’s slapstick linen flips. Plans for Christmas melt, quick as snowballs on a summer’s day. Nice to hatch them though. Or pelt.

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