distantxshores

...and she was there again, talking to me like she could care less, what I feel or think about her and the past. I walked past her, cause I'd seen right through her, and her scene. A teardrop, mascara stains lipstick smudges on burned out cigarettes. The chord tangles around my fingers as our conversation reaches the dial tone; a million miles away glass plates collide. Walking at night I could still hear, the beat of two sets of feet marching hand in hand to the sway of hips brushing against one another. Cheek to cheek kisses and warm bodies becoming one.

...And we pulled and pulled at each others strings to single another shot in the dark