they stands in a patch of flowers, a wreath of looped daisies in eren’s hands, and he stares at levi with big, curious eyes.
“i know we’ve been friends since we were born,” the little boy says before extending his arms out, holding the crown of flowers out to his friend. “and my mom told me that when you love someone, you ask them to marry you. so i’m asking you.”
levi stares at his childhood friend, the boy he has known for as long as he can remember, with a pensive expression. “what?”
eren frowns hard, cheeks red. “i’m asking you to marry me, levi!”
Grass. Green blades. Green bright blades of sumptuous and crisp smelling earth. The stuff that has been put here for us to absorb. To love, embrace and enjoy. Breathe in. Spill out. The scent of green.
“Be careful next time,” she tells me as she puts the needle down. “Your aunt would be furious if she were to discover you running around the grounds in your second-best dress.”
i looked over at the furniture, couches covered in patches of other fabric paterns that i wasnt sure what the couch looked like at the start, Casey saw nothing bad about sitting on a couch that could possibly be infested with bugs and surely was covered in a thick layer of dust, he laid on top of it making himself comfortable. I had the feeling that Casey would be comfortable anywhere, he adapted to the situation almost instantly. I couldnt help myself feeling a pinch of jealousy stabbing through me, why was what came so easily to him so hard for me.
There was a patch of dried skin next to the place where my lips met yours. I haven’t been able to consolidate all I had felt that night, but I do remember how you smelled, how we fit together, and that goddamn patch of skin.
No matter how the weather was, he was always to be found in the same spot. A green, badly painted bench just viable through the trees, he would sit with his newspaper folded under his arm, his Collie lying on a patch of grass at his feet.
I looked at my old sweater, patched to hide the breaks in my armor. Nobody could come into my world now. I walked out into the night with my patches, safe as houses. Nobody could come into my world now.
The man with an eye-patch walked slowly down the street, people gave him side glanes but it was something that he was very used to. He carried on walking, he had a goal and he wasn’t going to let a few ignorant people distract him from his task.
There was a small patch of land behind her hous that she always thought to develop into something more, and now that Nelly had moved out of the house, it was time. She reached into the back of the shed with bare hands, hoping tha tthere was nothisn shapr there and started to feel around for her had and gloves, which she’d abandoned several years before. Finding them, she wwnet
It was not a simple thing to patch up, years of lies and bad experiences. And then, of course, it was something that had to be patched up with a child involved. He was thirteen years old, yes, and rather mature, but it was just too much for him to understand within a singular simple conversation. He’d deny it at first, of course. It would be too much for him.
The garden patch out back was always visited by the local rabbits in search of sweet, crunchy carrots. The garden patch was a haven for myriads of insects, especially the beautiful butterflies.
every time i climb over your skin i feel like i am falling into your imperfections. the patches of skin where i feel your anger, softest. you know i have a sick adoration for your dirty blues and black thoughts.
This makes me think of a pirate with one eye; one eye because he lost it in battle, a battle of which we shall never know the true details but his patch gives us enough illusion to imagine battlegrounds and ship crusades and cannons and pirateous
Everywhere else is kept gardened and neat, lush and green. Tangles of red roses wind throughout the black wrought iron fence that encloses the little paradise beyond my back porch.
Except for in the back, in front of a cluster of pine trees. A patch of brown soil, newly churned. One of the shoe boxes is missing from the closet, and a sign in the front yard advertises “baby clothes: never worn”.
In a patch of clover, he hesitated. The little rounded leaves were tender and the purple-tinged flowers nodded at him gently, but there were bees among them, and he was afraid.
A patch seals up the places that are torn and ripped. A patch keeps the rain out – holds things together – colorful, different….sometimes invisible. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a patch for all the ripped places in our lives?
I fell to the ground when the bicycle skidded from under me has I turned the corner on my way home. The result of not placing the patch on the inner tube in the tyre correctly.
The patches on her tweed jacket matched her slightly frayed sleeves, which she quite obviously had a habit of tearing and picking at. Despite her shabby appearance, she radiated a subtle elegance.
the reality broke suddenly. Black light flooded the street. The mage awaiting this was standing on the corner, prepared patch floating in the air in front of him. The color was being eaten off of object all around. Blow of the air following the spilling of unlight tore the patch away before the mage could even begin to notice the threat.
The patch lay loosely against his right eye. So annoyed, he thought as he tried to scratch around it. Why now. Prom of course was just a few weeks away and of course this is the time that something like this would happen.
They stayed there for what felt like time beyond measure, stretched out in the wide patch of sunlight, the warmth of its rays leech the lingering wetness from their bodies.
Patchwork. I spent years after the war patching together my life. Trying to put back together what soldiers had torn apart and patching together the soldiers that were torn apart. But there was always this one.. He patched me up and took me home and our children were whole.
I browsed my closet to look for decent pants. It’s been three weeks since my last visit to our house, and I was running out of pants to wear. Sighing, I grabbed a pair I last wore three years ago–still intact with that hideous four-inch hole on the crotch area. In its pocket is a patch of fabric unpatched–a work my girlfriend never finished.
They went through a rough patch, but stuck together. They had too much invested in their partnership, and both of them knew they could not make it on their own. They had gone through hell to get that domain name, and their personal problems would just have to take a back seat.
Another day gone by of working hard for a meager wage. No class today, it’s a holiday. My employer and the hot summer sun obviously didn’t get the memo. It pisses me off that these other people around me have the day off from their easier, well-paying white-collar “work”. Ah, it’s time! Since, I have no car and the walk home is four miles, I waited. Waited for a PATCH of cloud to block the searing heat of the sun. At least for a minute, but hopefully for longer, I’d have some comfort. Now if only I could know of a good time for avoiding potential death from all these witless Los Angelian drivers.
The patch started to peel off her uniform.
It continued to peel.
Nobody noticed.
Or nobody cared.
It sat out unworn.
Never to be showed off.
Only to fade.
restrict the flow and turn back
the tide ever pouring out of the wound
that spears me deep
attach and defend from the unseen mites
the course and the source of
endless nights of dirty aches
They were all over his clothing, keeping his elbows and knees and shoulders from poking through the worn fabric. He certainly looked like a beggar, like he was constantly down on his luck, but the smile on his face told her otherwise. He looked… content, in a way that she had never experienced for herself. It drew her to him, and as she handed him the arrow he’d dropped she flashed him a pretty smile.
The sound coming from her slightly burnt body indicated that not only had something gone wrong but it was continuing to do so. He looks at the monitor on her back, flashing a memory corrupt icon, the patch hadn’t worked.
A pumpkin patch once upon a time was named Debbie’s Pumpkin Patch so I could make pie from home grown pumpkins. I cooked to keep the peace. To let them know as much as I could I did love them as much as I could considering all the years of fear, anger, and strife.
There was a patch on his jeans. A simple one that his grandmother had patched up years ago. It was not a good patch either. In fact, this patch had several patches laid over it.
Finally, a patch. Now I can get back to writing nonsense. What a wonderful world it is. Who else agrees? Don, do you agree? What about you, Lisa? Do you agree? Tempelton? Roger Stormweather?
There’s a certain patch where people sit, eating their lunches out of paper bags, farther away from most of the general populace in the park. The patch is worn down drastically – mostly dirt, very little grass, and all brown – and sometimes coats are laid out as a simple substitute to blankets and quilts And when night falls, the stars seem brightest from that specific spot, where the trees are spread out more evenly and the leaves don’t block out the evening canvas.
The floor of the lighthouse was cold against Tahno’s cheek. He noted the peeling paintwork on the walls and tried in vain to remember how the hell he had got here in the first place. His memory returned in dribs and drabs. There was a faint smell of briny ocean but otherwise he could be anywhere. Anywhere but home.
they stands in a patch of flowers, a wreath of looped daisies in eren’s hands, and he stares at levi with big, curious eyes.
“i know we’ve been friends since we were born,” the little boy says before extending his arms out, holding the crown of flowers out to his friend. “and my mom told me that when you love someone, you ask them to marry you. so i’m asking you.”
levi stares at his childhood friend, the boy he has known for as long as he can remember, with a pensive expression. “what?”
eren frowns hard, cheeks red. “i’m asking you to marry me, levi!”
Grass. Green blades. Green bright blades of sumptuous and crisp smelling earth. The stuff that has been put here for us to absorb. To love, embrace and enjoy. Breathe in. Spill out. The scent of green.
“Be careful next time,” she tells me as she puts the needle down. “Your aunt would be furious if she were to discover you running around the grounds in your second-best dress.”
The patch of skin on my wrists that had been tied together were rubbed raw from my failed attempts of escape.
i looked over at the furniture, couches covered in patches of other fabric paterns that i wasnt sure what the couch looked like at the start, Casey saw nothing bad about sitting on a couch that could possibly be infested with bugs and surely was covered in a thick layer of dust, he laid on top of it making himself comfortable. I had the feeling that Casey would be comfortable anywhere, he adapted to the situation almost instantly. I couldnt help myself feeling a pinch of jealousy stabbing through me, why was what came so easily to him so hard for me.
There was a patch of dried skin next to the place where my lips met yours. I haven’t been able to consolidate all I had felt that night, but I do remember how you smelled, how we fit together, and that goddamn patch of skin.
No matter how the weather was, he was always to be found in the same spot. A green, badly painted bench just viable through the trees, he would sit with his newspaper folded under his arm, his Collie lying on a patch of grass at his feet.
I looked at my old sweater, patched to hide the breaks in my armor. Nobody could come into my world now. I walked out into the night with my patches, safe as houses. Nobody could come into my world now.
The man with an eye-patch walked slowly down the street, people gave him side glanes but it was something that he was very used to. He carried on walking, he had a goal and he wasn’t going to let a few ignorant people distract him from his task.
i am made of you and old lovers
when you ripped pieces out pieces of my body to hold me
There was a small patch of land behind her hous that she always thought to develop into something more, and now that Nelly had moved out of the house, it was time. She reached into the back of the shed with bare hands, hoping tha tthere was nothisn shapr there and started to feel around for her had and gloves, which she’d abandoned several years before. Finding them, she wwnet
It was not a simple thing to patch up, years of lies and bad experiences. And then, of course, it was something that had to be patched up with a child involved. He was thirteen years old, yes, and rather mature, but it was just too much for him to understand within a singular simple conversation. He’d deny it at first, of course. It would be too much for him.
The garden patch out back was always visited by the local rabbits in search of sweet, crunchy carrots. The garden patch was a haven for myriads of insects, especially the beautiful butterflies.
every time i climb over your skin i feel like i am falling into your imperfections. the patches of skin where i feel your anger, softest. you know i have a sick adoration for your dirty blues and black thoughts.
This makes me think of a pirate with one eye; one eye because he lost it in battle, a battle of which we shall never know the true details but his patch gives us enough illusion to imagine battlegrounds and ship crusades and cannons and pirateous
Everywhere else is kept gardened and neat, lush and green. Tangles of red roses wind throughout the black wrought iron fence that encloses the little paradise beyond my back porch.
Except for in the back, in front of a cluster of pine trees. A patch of brown soil, newly churned. One of the shoe boxes is missing from the closet, and a sign in the front yard advertises “baby clothes: never worn”.
In a patch of clover, he hesitated. The little rounded leaves were tender and the purple-tinged flowers nodded at him gently, but there were bees among them, and he was afraid.
A patch seals up the places that are torn and ripped. A patch keeps the rain out – holds things together – colorful, different….sometimes invisible. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a patch for all the ripped places in our lives?
I fell to the ground when the bicycle skidded from under me has I turned the corner on my way home. The result of not placing the patch on the inner tube in the tyre correctly.
The puppy was frowning, he didn’t like the name, spot… Patch? Do you like that name, His ears pricked up. His name was patch.
The patches on her tweed jacket matched her slightly frayed sleeves, which she quite obviously had a habit of tearing and picking at. Despite her shabby appearance, she radiated a subtle elegance.
the reality broke suddenly. Black light flooded the street. The mage awaiting this was standing on the corner, prepared patch floating in the air in front of him. The color was being eaten off of object all around. Blow of the air following the spilling of unlight tore the patch away before the mage could even begin to notice the threat.
The patch lay loosely against his right eye. So annoyed, he thought as he tried to scratch around it. Why now. Prom of course was just a few weeks away and of course this is the time that something like this would happen.
They stayed there for what felt like time beyond measure, stretched out in the wide patch of sunlight, the warmth of its rays leech the lingering wetness from their bodies.
Patchwork. I spent years after the war patching together my life. Trying to put back together what soldiers had torn apart and patching together the soldiers that were torn apart. But there was always this one.. He patched me up and took me home and our children were whole.
If Earth is chaos
Mankind’s time is a PATCH of
pure insanity
I browsed my closet to look for decent pants. It’s been three weeks since my last visit to our house, and I was running out of pants to wear. Sighing, I grabbed a pair I last wore three years ago–still intact with that hideous four-inch hole on the crotch area. In its pocket is a patch of fabric unpatched–a work my girlfriend never finished.
They went through a rough patch, but stuck together. They had too much invested in their partnership, and both of them knew they could not make it on their own. They had gone through hell to get that domain name, and their personal problems would just have to take a back seat.
Another day gone by of working hard for a meager wage. No class today, it’s a holiday. My employer and the hot summer sun obviously didn’t get the memo. It pisses me off that these other people around me have the day off from their easier, well-paying white-collar “work”. Ah, it’s time! Since, I have no car and the walk home is four miles, I waited. Waited for a PATCH of cloud to block the searing heat of the sun. At least for a minute, but hopefully for longer, I’d have some comfort. Now if only I could know of a good time for avoiding potential death from all these witless Los Angelian drivers.
The patch started to peel off her uniform.
It continued to peel.
Nobody noticed.
Or nobody cared.
It sat out unworn.
Never to be showed off.
Only to fade.
restrict the flow and turn back
the tide ever pouring out of the wound
that spears me deep
attach and defend from the unseen mites
the course and the source of
endless nights of dirty aches
They were all over his clothing, keeping his elbows and knees and shoulders from poking through the worn fabric. He certainly looked like a beggar, like he was constantly down on his luck, but the smile on his face told her otherwise. He looked… content, in a way that she had never experienced for herself. It drew her to him, and as she handed him the arrow he’d dropped she flashed him a pretty smile.
The sound coming from her slightly burnt body indicated that not only had something gone wrong but it was continuing to do so. He looks at the monitor on her back, flashing a memory corrupt icon, the patch hadn’t worked.
A pumpkin patch once upon a time was named Debbie’s Pumpkin Patch so I could make pie from home grown pumpkins. I cooked to keep the peace. To let them know as much as I could I did love them as much as I could considering all the years of fear, anger, and strife.
There was a patch on his jeans. A simple one that his grandmother had patched up years ago. It was not a good patch either. In fact, this patch had several patches laid over it.
Freedom: being able to pass a patch of glass without the thought arising to look at your reflection.
Finally, a patch. Now I can get back to writing nonsense. What a wonderful world it is. Who else agrees? Don, do you agree? What about you, Lisa? Do you agree? Tempelton? Roger Stormweather?
If only there were a patch on my hole in the middle of my chest.
There’s a certain patch where people sit, eating their lunches out of paper bags, farther away from most of the general populace in the park. The patch is worn down drastically – mostly dirt, very little grass, and all brown – and sometimes coats are laid out as a simple substitute to blankets and quilts And when night falls, the stars seem brightest from that specific spot, where the trees are spread out more evenly and the leaves don’t block out the evening canvas.
The floor of the lighthouse was cold against Tahno’s cheek. He noted the peeling paintwork on the walls and tried in vain to remember how the hell he had got here in the first place. His memory returned in dribs and drabs. There was a faint smell of briny ocean but otherwise he could be anywhere. Anywhere but home.