Tune me. Tweak me. Time me well and I’ll spin you anywhere. Purple haze holds no comparison to the heights we could reach. How can you call game when you haven’t even lit up the torch? Maybe if you didn’t trip so hard, I’d get to see those pulsar eyes radiating with my daily fix of romantic gibberish. Your hand in mine slips up
and grasps instead your pants. Yes, I’m sucking up for the next time you pipe me butterfly kisses under the smoky sheets of your thoughts.
Puppet me. Perfect me. Promise me tonight is not just another speeding escapade that shot the moon and missed the exit. It’s high time we get going back to that shimmer in the sky. So I fly, but I’m only trying to tempt my angel further to grounding. Acid-ink blotting away charming times making me wish to join your star-strung-out roadway. How am I to hop on if your hand in mine slips up?
Lovers Never Tell · Mon Apr 27, 2009 @ 07:57am · 0 Comments |