An echo true, as virtue sings, silver lined pipes that carry him in, smooth and soft, and caressed all the while.
Instead, life milk, to thoughts unawares, and the corporeal receptor, in throws of humanity; an island of missing, to that which is but, yet an absence of commotion, in the calm of chaos.
"Silk!" she screams silently with the drive of her body, ivory hues in painted night; soft as revealed, the intrinsicance of furore and blood-warmed skin. Oh how it melts in the radiant heat; between that to which the clear scented, bleeds from within.
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