Driving home with wind flowing through my hair. The chill of the summer night, strong enough to pierce - but can't steal away my high. A high no secret revealed can change - the depths that are sweet behind the thorn, a pineapple raw. A force that runs you through with red. A clarity that reveals your spine - a silk feeling of promise.
Starlit evenings - rare with spirit, in a city of long lost love. A paradise of cynicism, where standoffish humor acts as replacement for dreams once hoped - archived only in precarious pipe dream fairytales.
Girl, you got me guessing. Tonight is a night where poems are writ. Everything feels sing song, light and heavy - beautiful though vibrantly overwhelming but conscious.
A soundtrack kind of night - where stereobeat match my heartbeats. Reminiscent visions of an hour previous, flash around my mind - on constant replay. Interlocked fingers and soul aligned eyes met harmoniously - where stuttered, strained breaths say all that's to be said.
Girl, you got me guessing. Tonight is a night where poems are writ. Everything feels sing song, light and heavy - beautiful though vibrantly overwhelming but conscious.
A soundtrack kind of night - where stereobeat match my heartbeats. Reminiscent visions of an hour previous, flash around my mind - on constant replay. Interlocked fingers and soul aligned eyes met harmoniously - where stuttered, strained breaths say all that's to be said.
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