Kismet is not Orange, But you do look marvelous in it...

Along the corner he traced his step, backward into the marginal silence of the night.
Clanging bottles. Bursts of laughter. A car horn. A siren.
And there was a silhouette, walking in a gliding, dance.
She turned and became a burst of shocking color.
A night-blooming flower, graceful and succulent.
And there he stood a flash of laughter, and 200 proof energy.
They paused briefly, for each to warm the other.
A crossing brief, tender, and light.

AmplitudeAnteMeridianModulation

There is a station in the distance that only broadcasts pain. I follow it's broad highways into the wee hours of the mourning. Who hurt you DJ? Why do you keep playing 'One Headlight?'

But, that's not what you are really playing. You make pain seem like it has only brushed up against you, like the wind, silently in the night.

You smell like vanilla, a bruised and broken open fruit. What the masses call 'plain.' There is no truth in the hive, only propaganda. In truth, vanilla is the only edible orchid. A rare sustenance amongst pure desire.

But, that is where I hide; in cold trivia. I often ignore the warmth that I feel. Now to reach and confidently pluck. There I could, finally, separate myself from the vine.