The faint damp wind that, ere the even, blows
Piling the west with many a tawny sheaf,
Then when the last glad wavering hours are mown
Sigheth and dies because the day is sped;
This wind is like her and the listless air
Wherewith she goeth by beneath the trees,
The trees that mock her with their scarlet stain.
“So, her secret. What’s her secret? She shapes you so special, like you’re the answer, the only one who could ever know it, who could hold it in the chest of the self. The only self that mattered, the self she cuts you into. I say yes tell me, I come closer, I feel her warmth on me: The endless sea of mouth, the lining of the lip which shapes her a physical self despite the woodenishness you could not detect unless it warped you, which it would, if you were near enough.”
Lisa Marie Basile | Nympholepsy