Rush

What a rush. You took note of all the quiet gestures.

Sometimes, you recount aloud; and sometimes you're not even sure why. You shift that its a melon baller to tip of the skull - you can relish in this trephaning.

But, wait.

Are you sure its a collection of truth? Or is it a misguided hope?
You roll all the angles around like sweet candies and perhaps second opinion is what saturates this formula with confidence.

You bet you're not even ready for such a task. You sometimes throw the gun. You sometimes jump. You sometimes aren't even near. Or rather you don't facilitate the need or desire to sit through such a transfusion. This, however, doesn't mean that the swell of desire isn't a deep rooted fixture.

Yet on your every corner - on every shuffle of your foot in backwards step: You sense a deluge myth.

You could try forgetting about all that and write about something happy for once.

Whats the fun in that, right?