these lips are like the streets of the urban downtown- scarred, baked under the heat of the city, beaten by the footsteps of time, dried by its inability to moisten itself with fluid conversations.
these eyes are tired of looking at the same patterns, at the same routine, at the conventional, at the predictable sides of life. these eyes are dry. tear glands have long ceased to function and react to any emotion that could trigger the production of tears.
this skin, oh it flakes. the slightest contact from it causes scratches and lines. this skin is like the deteriorating white-washed walls of the old office warehouse- a piece of its crispy and dry portion falls off the floor on each second that ticks.
the oases can be found in my palms.
these palms are the only wet part of my body right now.
rivers of sweat run through the intersecting lines of fate embedded on it.
now i just need someone or anyone to hold my hand. who knows, that person or creature can bring back the moisture of my system.