S.o.C. #13; Run-on

It’s the skinny jeans. The Zombie P’s and the hoodies, never zipped up. It’s the white tee, the red bandana, the fucking obnoxious green belt that’s always worn with so much insistence. It’s the bite of the chapped lip, the slow agonizing glance, the unsure scratch of the face, the pull of the hair, feet planted hard on ground, shifting, swaying, leaning, careening, hands in pockets never looking always glancing. It’s the long hair, fucking cut it, that half-slouch-half-erect stance, it’s the attitude eating the passivity, it’s the sound of the pavement crushing, colliding mashing, gnashing, against the wheel, the bearing, gliding to carry. It’s the clouds rolling swiftly by, a bull, a cow, manta ray, a pair of lovers, a handful of love, an-I-don’t-know-what-the-fuck-that-is. But that’s it.

Imma make sure we ball till we fall like tears.

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