The number you were first thinking of

We were made from disused carbon packet hamstrings, woven in three piece shirts that draped themselves across us in lazy Styrofoam smiles. Eyes flowing like brick cast marshmallows seized the nape of their woollen dreams and sealed them tight against the harsh mood lighting of the winter’s morning. Then beyond this, past the eclipse dotted worries we rode on beams of pure castanet, not a single peak or leaf wound or fuelled save to point the ways out of the milestone hued lapse of thought. The crumbling never materialised, crunching down to the core of the sugarbowl it snared unwary travellers and supped their hairstyles on sweetly tuned misapprehension.