confusion says:
Firm, holding air like strangling a child, feeling its tapping pulse on your painted fingertips.
Blue is bleeding into veins of oxygen, and suddenly you choke on yourself, releasing in shock and horror.
Time is not an essence, nor a tangible solution, rather a melting, steaming clock on our doorstep, sticky to the touch.
Running is elastic, and rubber-souled, you don't bother. Stock-still, statuesque, and stoned.
Potential is kept within the eyes, rubbing and tipping into sighs.