A week of fever.

With furrowed brows the intensity slid down sideburns to drip from my lips leaving shadows into the depths far later than a five o'clock shadow turning hands to midnight, or two or was it three a.m. in early morning hours.

Rumbling like thundering but with a low dull growl hands latched on with need to relaxing back to fraility, to softness, to return to the core of myself where the flowers grow in twisting vines to make footholes and ropes designed to carry such determination to the interiors and rooms locked of my mind.

Moisture from my cloudy head was left like dew on eye lashes closed and moments of silence after silence halted breaths of a muffled I miss you leaving words upon the walls of my bedroom confessional.

With quiet calm these days have turned passing moments like drawing chalk scenes on hot cement and my night times are full of melted marshmallow moments over bowls of chocolate covered pear cocktails I can taste on my mouth.

Fever talk.