Conversations

Tom and Marry sunk themselves in the swing hanging from the trunk of that sycamore being stuck amid their seceret garden, bloody roses devouring shadows of them.
~Look, purple skyline.
~I hate purple.
~And the clouds tasty.
~I hate tasty.
~Hey, inhale, the winds sweet.
~I hate sweet.
~Your eyes shine.
~I hate shiny.
~And I love your hating.