Her Pot Biography

You offering me these fries is an indication.
Look at you,
Flushed with sun. Sweat trailing from your twinkling eyes, down to your crevasses best served as a feast
Magnetizing me on the carousal, executing it like a bawse
...

The sunset swifts through the atmosphere, ranting in slurs, and deafening our regards
Misery and melancholy creeping in with no inch of radiance
All these concerns of how we've lost our time
Normalizing hurt with no remorse
...