Stripes, Solids. Good or Evil.
It makes no difference.
Calculated stares behind steel rimmed glasses and a handle bar mustache.
The kind of mustache you'd picture God having.
Pull, Push, and Release. Sunk.
Another game, another drink.
Banter back and forth, wooden weapons in hand used to occasionally steady one's self.
An amphetamine soul, chugging cigarette after cigarette.
Enamel grinds against enamel.
Thousand. Yard. Stare.
Sure, He's got the Girl.
But you've got.
You've got..
You've.. Got...
You've got something special. Man.
No, I mean it.
Ten thousand drooping eye conversations into the morning regarding the secrets of the Universe
Cold and warm hands held until their temperatures match
Staring past the iris, into the soul
Claims of Love. Of heartbreak. Of Truth and Intention.
Anyone who has noticed my smile was definitely looking for it.
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