Iris, Sunday afternoon — ———– by Caio Fern ( who else ?)


When the shores forget its own voids to fall in silence into fading sounds and lost eras of purple and blue.
The pale texture of her skin became everything existence should be fed with…..
…….into me.

In bed we opened The Book. 
Allowing the drizzle to fall outside whispering the gray/gold of distant spiritual edges cuddling.

www.silentspots.blogspot.com
www.meinwelt-22.blogspot.com
www.caiowelt.blogspot.com

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