Honesty

what kind of nonsense is this whenever the mood fits only when convenient, without regard for the other parts waiting, anticipating for what, exactly other than some displaced tingling in an area we're not that comfortable with or wish to talk about out loud they dance around the phantom sounds of moonlight's bliss, astonished by their nakedness we watch and stare or at least that's what we tell ourselves, as we press through years of unopened mail knowing all the while above the dashboard swings the best of everything, it's no surprise. eyes don't lie ...