on the days of her unbecoming she snatches the metal lizard from the wall and sings to him an opera-esque ballad of woe and deflation.
her voice lands haunting melodious melancholia about the jagged edges of a brief and dissatisfied existence, to which a perpetually bent brass gecko should surely relate on the deepest most intimate surface level of a playing field.
his snaggy not suction claws being the most loud indicator of crafted futility, his dull ungleaming demeanor-a mirror opposite a soul of hammered and hammered and cut up cut up brass.
they fall silent.
they fall. silent.
they fall.
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