Allergies

She pleases me in a garter belt; still not enough pleasure for her own enjoyment.

Forbidden to wander astray from the pod of ambiguous likeness she recalls a single breast suited man; he would of already terminated the pests as he did upon entering the house.

"What happened to this place?"

"Must of been a dysfunction of disambiguation."

"This is where she must do that which you say?"

Duet of dueling disclosures prefers to argue instead. As they close their dues of doom the door slams with a set of keys caught in my left hand.

"We need to make this a resolution of some sort..."

His hair is a heavy silk woven by mystical caterpillars some may call worms; fact being these do indeed metamorphose butterflies with black hole centered purple wings. Highlight of crimson touches the sun from the left side of his chinned angle, the other side is soft to the skin as German Shepherd puppy fur. Glaciers underneath Aurora Borealis must of sequenced his mischievous eyes.

"Anybody who tries to take this away from us will suffer the consequence..."

"That being what?"

Mindless as the organisms which must of infiltrated the despair of the foundation I am disdained by the beauty of his mark.

"We forget to mention there is a couple that thinks this is their house..."

Both speak the phrase at the same moment exchanging a glance which did touch us both with the glamor of disguise.

"What do you mean they think it is their house? It is or it is not."

"They obviously do not give a shit about it."

"They must be horrid..."

Both turn back to acknowledge my statement.

"They are supposed to be your parents."

We glare into space as remembrance evades me once again.

She dreams quite often of the possession; she believes they dream of each other's possession as well which she might witness in a third eye discretion of indirect to directional experience.

She is clueless as to what their purpose this presence would be as the show is absurd; nobody in their right mind will believe!

There is a society's man appearance of an actual creature covered in creases with boar like features seated at the kitchen table eating the bakery's stale bread for discount thrills accompanied with a tub of country butter; realistically if this man ate this constantly along with the glazed pastries and cookies he would be a cardiac arrest for many obesities. He is a rude statement of drama, balding of white streaks with obvious itchy comb over, laundry considers him rarely as he is a character which never cooks for himself, glasses of rounding squares similar to his personality dress his hideous face, bastardly is his transgression, dastardly are his household chores, disgusting his habits, and god damn I am bored with much more than these.

She dreams of a photographer snapping a picture of humorous eyeglasses only heard by the imp's tickled giggling fetus.

She dreams of him always.

Oh what fantasies a woman can fly as bats without wings; they must surely enjoy her as they do their own well being. One faints, another squeaks, her neighbor cuddles in his temperature, the one across is erect as configuration, each an architect it seems.

She is in the need to know of details which I cannot confess as she writes for me; words will never be the man we desire, words will never be her enjoyment, words will never fulfill her desire, words for me bring relief as they will testament for her likeness to me. She is the changeling of the changed being.

"They're ugly too...."

"What?"

Confuse's eyes meet me in the light of aspiration. What the hell on bloody earth is he looking at me like that for anyways? I suppose she knows. She is doing this for me or does she do it for him? She needs to decide quickly.

"What if I become confused with their presence."

"You will..."

"She will never believe they are her blood in any sense."

"They will try desperately to make her believe whatever they want."

"I do not believe in anything so I seriously doubt anybody or anything can make me believe regardless."

"Somebody else is going through the same."

"We should meet..."

"What do you mean the same?"

He is a flare for the road surrounding a broken down American white car. What light he brings...

"Exactly just switched in appearance a bit."

"Is he handsome?"

He is a dead flare exposing dynamite surrounding the hoisted engine of the American white car which only drove so far.

"What if he is handsome?"

"He is....I know he is.....he must be unbelievably handsome."

"He is a good looking man."

"What if he is handsome?"

Repetitive verses do summon me when I am trance hypnotic for dreams caught in between.

"He is unbelievably handsome; that is why I do not believe."

"What if you see him?"

"Yeah what if you see him?"

"Only in my dreams."

Must she be so grotesquely aware of gravity's theoretical pull on the flesh? She devours dates as ancient scripture, tamarind paste as blood which doth flow only by this peculiar digestion, bathes in white wine as virginity, swims in milk for the drain of epidermal madness, now she is motionless of the run she released as a burst of stress, ridden by bodily functions she fears to admit, I cannot halt her vanity; the mirror has been replaced. Others must surely notice....

This photographer must be a divine glimpse of eternity; she desires forever with him. This is the man her purity knows as her body; she will only give herself to him. This I am well pleased for my own sanity I absolutely agree with her decision even if she never gets to meet him this reservation is a picture we both dream.