Sunday Scribblings #94 - Covert

The color of reality is sometimes black.
Like when there is the persuasive aroma of sun-dappled longing.
Which forces wafting pleasure to be sheltered.
And urges the shapes of clandestine holding.
Where layered penalties veil the skin of certain truth.
Still, their cells act as a haven of veracity.
She.
And Her.
He.
And Him.
Covert lovers.