The air has an edge, Chalky and gritty and filled with smoke, Like last Tuesday, Like every Tuesday before. Violent music pounds the amps, Thick bass tangles in my hair, Hatred and angst, rebellion Undulates the crowd. Glaze drapes over bleary eyes, Still, I see her, again, Like a beacon. Melted and dirty and used, On a shiny-red, leather sofa, Dragging on a stolen cigarette. A
from Lush Stories - latest Sex Stories https://ift.tt/2RENat7
0 comments:
Post a Comment