Oh how you turn the love as chaotic as ours into commodity so comforting; i no longer want to call it violent. Storm-suchlike. Visceral. I want nothing but warm hands and ether kisses, withering like the fire-lit buttercups on your night stand. I want nothing further than to talk to you with a nibble of evenings. I want nothing further than the calm quiet nights, with no space between us, our skin aglow under lilac puck lights. I want this new- inaugurate state of quiet grace. I want to be draped in your presence a girl who noway stays too long in a crowded megacity. A constant foreigner. A new- plant belief where good effects end up and eventually fall into place. At last — substance our hearts are cut out for.

I know I keep leaving, never known how to stay in one place. I got that gypsy soul.