her room is fantastically cluttered (fantastically cluttered is the best)

there was this girl, i loved her like a paper cup. her skin was dyed into her body, then she let go. i don't mind. what goes in the stream of this, i haven't got no skin. it's tied to the Montana mountain in the evening time. but i don't mind, or what goes goes on. will i find your skin scraped out, carving letters throughout the thermals in the air, leaving tendrils of light like lightning, flaring up in the atomic spaces between your pointer and fuck off fingers? but to you, love goes in 'an oh what the oh what the oh what the...' we saw the sky go 'what the,' the accidental constellation innocence in the small train substations. how you love to go into the small spaces. most of us find temples to take the time that we lost or build houses to farm out our thoughts, but the rain swallows the humming birds that steal away the motions and subsequently, i can see people who run marathons instead of taking blame. millions of petals fall, breaking the surface tension of rain water. the geese fly low and dislocates us and how it steals the water and our spirit leaks into the ocean. don't worry about the watering, she swam toward the spooking in the rich folks neighborhood and was gifted in overcoming, scared of being discarded.