The man, with a deep voice and a blue moon tattoo, walked in.
His eyes were looking under the skin, burning the surface.
I felt the smell of leaves on fire.
His old guitar was full of stories.
Years.
He was polite not like he learned to be, but like he had born with it.
...Soon he was walking away in the undefined direction, dragging my thoughts over the parks.
His eyes were looking under the skin, burning the surface.
I felt the smell of leaves on fire.
His old guitar was full of stories.
Years.
He was polite not like he learned to be, but like he had born with it.
...Soon he was walking away in the undefined direction, dragging my thoughts over the parks.
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