Skin on skin.
Flesh to flesh.
Our bodies stack.
Mine, on top, five feet of wingnettes, bones predominantly, meat where it’s meant to be; hers, underneath, seventy inches of drumsticks, the bones are larger, yet you can’t feel it, the meat is ample but toned.
The wings have hope.
The hope hasn’t come.
The legs skips chance.
The chance is far beyond.
She dreams to fly.
I dream to run.
We are in the wrong dreams.
People tell you no dreams are wrong.
No. Wings must dream to fly.
Legs must dream to run.
Higher. Farther. Respectively.
We lie together, our bodies as the bed - blowing my grandeur, smoking her reverie.
Coming down.
Waking up.
Hoping hope.
Chasing chance.
Here we are, dreaming, to and fro, all the wrong dreams, still.
@OriginalWorks
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