Like a shining moon her forehead swelled, as all the beetles screamed in the pastoral night.
"My love is a twinkling baby," she croons. "For ye."
We are crouched under a cold burrito, its clammy texture lined in silver under the moon.
"I wish I could feel," I whisper.
She takes my legs
"My love is a twinkling baby," she croons. "For ye."
We are crouched under a cold burrito, its clammy texture lined in silver under the moon.
"I wish I could feel," I whisper.
She takes my legs
and then our chins
touched.
