this sky is murderous
jet black and peeling.
this static is deafening
keeping me from sleep.
i'm clutching at stars
but they're burning my fingers
and the blisters spell desire
devotion
your name.
so i'll live in those words
and the scars that they'll leave
i'll set fire to tomorrow
and i'll make you believe.
xxx
jet black and peeling.
this static is deafening
keeping me from sleep.
i'm clutching at stars
but they're burning my fingers
and the blisters spell desire
devotion
your name.
so i'll live in those words
and the scars that they'll leave
i'll set fire to tomorrow
and i'll make you believe.
xxx
x
x
x
it sucks next time maybe
Such as the dripping tap. Groundhog day of instincts.
The future contained within the past;
The jump you won't make, the climb flawed by gravity.
The glass slipper a five and a half to her six; make it fit if you want to.
Your hand in hers, your tandom strides peeling the skin, bubbling.
But still the dance goes on.
You bask in the mellow summer heat.
She tires, autumn leaves spiral atop one another. Corpses of desire.
A seasonal metaphor of the ill-fitting pieces.
In spring a face-less soul weeps upon her cloth-bound ankles, the perfect number hidden beneath.
She waits for the icicles of your eyes to leave winter.
A flat-pack screen to make previous flings contradictory when you return.
When you return to the future.
xXx