thecherrybombshell

For every single barracuda smile. Every apple that we didn't bite. All the dull exotic things I never had the chance to say. The way the ocean is louder at night, the glittering bones of the city, the taste of black cherries. For every paper star, and liquid street, suburban summer mattress shrine. For hands like deep-sea divers through your hair. The unknown red interior of you, the foreign countries of your thoughts. For every back of matchbook message, every finger tracing up my thighs, and for our messy blacklit mouths. All the casual knives of conversation, the snow like stained glass underneath the sky. For illuminated cities half-s

She laughs in whiskey-deep torch songs her fingers kissing tree-spines on absynthe green September nights. Guitar-hands and tangle-hair I am amber warming to her touch, all instinct and sticky incandescence against the cashmere landscape of her skin. She is a pink-ribboned galaxy of locust-songs and luscious sighs. --My Boyfriend Wet grass slapping ankles with stinging uninvited kisses, under terrible and sunless skies. Everywhere, the luscious damp green smell of summer. The furious clouds take to fierce copulation, the earth so moist she starts to sweat. Sweet rivers swell with broken finger-branches and stormwater, and opalescent