This bed needs to go outside to dry her mind in the sun and ease off this odour of past glories of bodies that have defiled their space and collided in places they shouldn't. Now they birth, what kind we do not know. They have grown and are well enough to birth beautiful letters if be.
Yes, they shouldn't have collided as babies. Aren't they supposed to wait for when time is their mate and their mate is legally theirs to collide sweaty bodies with. Maybe by that space of time, odour would become fragrance of blissful belongings.
Let's dry this bed before we begin to boggle minds with words unfamiliar.
Last night couldn't find rest, for wailings were present and giggles held her by the throat and she couldn't let the moon rest her rays.
You will find me in this manner: words never loving each other, words never keeping a syntactically friendly relationship for vulgar wits to decode with bare minds. Please dress your mind this night with some intellectual knowing, for the words we hope to put before you are none you can read meanings to once they mate on white plain sheets.
I hope you do not find virgins bleeding on white sheets, fingers crossing roads and dots and tees erring, tearing eyes and coursing new memories when words and poets birth after their kinds, not like vulgar wits my dear, perhaps they birth like "painters who first make the picture, and from the opinions of better judgements, conclude whom it resembles." Now what have I said my friend?