Archive
04/01/10 - (1)
Wasn't
I once knew a lady who wasn't. Two decades worth of her, She, Were more than enough, more than enough too much.
When I'd touch her, She wouldn't be there, almost always, But when She was, Her flesh felt like the scales of a piranha, a Komodo dragon.
Yet to say that her epidermis was piscine, reptilian, Would be a formidable misappropriation of verisimilitude; Her skin more closely resembled the spiny quills of a porcupine
Or something more on the order of Christ's crown of thorns. Anyway, as I was saying, about to say, When I'd grasp her, She'd simply vanish into thin skin.
And that's why, for two two-too-many decades, More or less less than more than less, The lady I once knew, who wasn't, wasn't even who She wasn't.
04/01/10 - (1)
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