For a love story

serial someone.

I met the first love of my life in Greece. 5 foot 7, a wild rose. Imagine Aphrodite as a singer. Except, I wanted to be a surgeon, and lullabies or beauty do not heal sick people. End of story. Wales welcomed me with a stripper who stuttered. At least the body consistently did the talking. We spent five nights going pole to pole until she got arrested by Christ. End of story.

Egypt looked at me and gave me Sanura. Just like her name she had eyes like a kitten, supple, flexible spine, wide hips, long strides, digitigrade. She died in a car accident. And it was my car. Finally, I met with Lucy that night. Such name, as of light. She was a writer. I was too. She was in love. I was not. I was out of my mind. She was not. She was murdered. I was not. I woke up to see she had been stabbed with my pencil right in her left eye. But the lusting, or should I say love for someone, anyone must go on.

/liː.ɒnl ɛtʃə/

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