Re-fiction

My mind don’t belong, but skipping the seduce only has me in fate, and would that be my relate, as betterment has foreclosed on any muse. A liar can enjoy their wonder, unto them, have redolent the fiction. So have I breached the making of Alice, a person or people, whom quote to a bibliophile infiltrating manifest of nothing, her word’s not mine. The gleaming of cat pee, stole her expense to have bade me no returning nurture, in or out of that reality, her dress-size had never appeared to be, in length of to a slip. And above her where the cirrus clouds had them knot, to my well liking in should, they dispose with the redolent day, leaving to expose incomplete, my pooling hands, Alice’s braided knot my grieving breast, the one in exchanging heart.

2019 Adam Blewett ©