zoebrowne
I remember, one day, seeing that woman who wore feathered hats walking along the dock.
The barren trees looked like claws scratching at the icy sky. Their leaves had long fallen to the ground and were now buried under almost a foot of snow.
His cheeks were like peaches. The soft fuzz, the juicy pulp, the smooth skin. I wanted to take a bite.
His cheeks are what I love to kiss the most. I miss them more than I miss my bong, more than I miss my bed.