Dunce tripe.

Tarnished tarmac, wind beneath the floorboards, and irreverent eccentrics dancing in the shadows like the campfire moonlight. Across the lake, I make out a pair of eyes; we make out in paradise.

Negligent barbers clip away, snip snip snip, and my head is barren with a shoulder-length phantom style.

“You look radiant tonight,” I said.

I flex and huff and make quite the commotion while you fixate on something off in the distance. It’s some kind of peace and tranquility, and I notice it once we walk there together. I didn’t mean to be so dense.