Misshapen glances
from beneath
fringed,
disheveled locks.
Smoggy air,
thick with
putrid odors.
Feel.
Experience
the bassline
invading
insides:
thumping,
punching,
heavy with
purpose.
Tissues haphazardly
wadded and
inserted.
Humidity;
a sweltering
realization.
No melody
in the universe,
no bottle of whiskey,
no ocean's depths
can
drown
you
out.
Christina Sawyer (c) 2012
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