Servants of Supposition

I don't remember what that's like. The chafe of anticipation rubbing against my skin. The bricks and mortar that build walls between kisses. Did I ever? Static moments whispered through the air like radios between tranmissions. Shy breasts fell out of their coffins in a soft footed drizzle. But that is all that really happened. We sat togoether the poker table, but I never placed a single bet.

Tuck weed caverns boasted their losses. Nothing died. The cold grew thick. And sanctimonious. Preaching each shiver steathily under our clothes. We were wrong for suffering it.. Brown leaves painting on the wind. In scrapes of every traveller gone before them.

I don't remember. Or never knew. It's hard to say. There are breadcrumbs everywhere. Some must be messages while others only coincidence. To be certain I must follow every one.

Hear the future. See the past. Remind the predator of its teeth. Give the dream time to wake us up. Such fertile vices cannot lie.