The body awoke ready to go, bit chomping.
The mirror folded; I fell inside.
Slipping between thighs. Breathy ardour.
Missing the coverage provided by the forest, traded for the raw exposure upon the lapping shore.
Everyone can hear my morning stomach growl, but doubt they do.
What’s the point?
The finality of a punctuated period.
The capital letter leads the presentation of the subsequent subject of a sentence.
Verdict of friction made visible by the absence of the fricative.
Does it taste as I imagine? Salty and acrid.
Does it pass through the nostrils in musky humid drafts?
Expelled and rolling down cliffs of pronounced pelvic bones.