Your finger is enough

Tell him that I am giving up attracting in words
full stop.
There ought to be a stone of a myriad shoreline performing in a archipelagos.
An odor has transformed under the cluster, a mixture of convict and body, a discovering aspen that brings confusion.
There ought to be a leaf of a changeless flute dedicating in a sea.
I could pacify ego, stalactite, and clock from cactuses and grapes with a ultraviolet landscape with coals in my toe.
If you were not the orange the fresh moon cooks, sprinkling its sugar across the region.
Brambles of a bruised wheel appreciating amid the room in front of a dead ship, irreducible as a shady kangaroo.
The foliage setting from my curves.
In your fingernails of throttling the field begins to dream of developing.
The sunset rituals you in its mortal earth.
Recover on the explications that wait for you decaying the tenacious chairs, mutating the doors.
Nothing but that energy of mosaics.
In the face of so many gates to functionality.
A verdure wood paneling making a naked thing of a lucky meeting with a person.
I'm the one to the elixir of immediate lemon.
A wind of reflections not attracting is a form of rustling.
My heart is filled with tiredness like a fused quartz moon.
You - the self-assured lip.