docile

follow me around the bush of salvia and fill my head with hysteria. what i should say (what i wont say) has been scoffed by fog.  was once crimson falls a beige: camellias echo secrets amongst themselves, breath of the baby winded, oxeyes watching. growing colder, the pansies bloom in the repressed light. lets play coy and hope the fatales do not fall to fatality.