Dew or Dew Not

Melancholic terrain of self-portraits with the heavy burden of love and the lack of it. Today, much of the ghost-town-harlot was explored and revived. She smiled with eyes of wet grass and rusted crevices of desire. With hand through hair: “passion is the thing,” was thoroughly graced from the movement.
“It’s the only thing.”
She promised to never take another step. Instead, she would evaporate and the earth would take her in on the next inhale. Her demise would be her infinity.