Paint Picture.

Picture This.

There is you and me, standing still as strangers on a division so deadly to cross. There are electric flames running through it, but it is safe. To to touch it, we'll probably spark little ripples of static through our skin but you'll kiss me and it will feel like power running through our veins...

Picture this. The drinks are pouring down our throats like the good-girl-bad-girl dreamy image you can place within your mind, because you are a man. 'Cos she can be that too, you see. You can do both when your heart beats faster.

Picture this because the music is so loud you cannot hear my voice. I hate my voice. We could communicate, technology is a dream these days. Yet I wold rather stare up at you, you're taller than me and that. Is. perfect.... It is possible if I cannot hear what you are thinking.

Picture this again. A swap of contact and the division snaps in two with only me and you. Alive in this all so crowded scenario. Picture this if you want me. I want you too.

Picture this. Then picture me.


She drew a canvas then. The strangers kiss. Her water pallet filling with inks and paints. She stabs with gentle straws of her brush, as lovers kiss in hurried rush. She'd tell her portrait to portray reality... If she only could...


- Boneata Bell

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