the outstretched fingers finding their way about the cold air of a dark room, waiting for the hand of another to guide you, but if they find you, could they hide you?
would they hide you?
seeking solace in sugar bones and your dim reflection, distinct through better breeding,
a vague sense of recollection, yet when you touch her skin, all thats left is the comforting taste of sin.
a moth to the flame of all that is measurably pleasurable, yet you are miserable, a ghost who feeds on what is expected normality. but if that hand found yours, would they guide you?
could they guide you?
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