And I die for deserving a swim through your river. I’m calling the ghosts of the certain deceiver, and I’m burning the hay. Oh, I will find the needle. I drown in the water. The water is me, but I know that I’m eager to choke the results of particular cravings, of hunger, of thirst, of polemic embraces. Oh, comfort my tongue while they dress and uncover and write you a song for them. I will not sigh and I will not enchant you. You’ve covered me blind for translations to hide to arise you. I run from the shadow, the shadow is mine to despise you.
We’re running
out
of
time.
We’re running
out
of
time.
[ Leandra ]
No comments:
Post a Comment