She perched solitary, cheval glass in hand
His tie on the boards beside her, cast in haste with decision made. Sometimes things don't work as proposed As illuminated by the torn and discarded Dear Jane letter under her chair. Her eye the lightest shade of purple, Her hair of someone tossed - and that she was. The ripple of her cellulite thighs nearly covered by her peignoir - open to expose sagging breasts and ashy skin. He was there in her spring, Now in winter he turn callow As the supine often do.
0 Comments
Your comment will be posted after it is approved.
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorAudrie is a writer and editor living in Illinois. She is a fan of all things horror and pop culture. Archives
February 2021
Categories |