невесомостью душ загадай желание опрокинуть наши тела в единственный дозволенный грех
no matter which cave i swallow tonight, the butterflies never cease to talk about you.
it's not the holy kind of love that flaxen my chipper eyes as it oozes everywhere it feels right – when people ask if i'm smitten in a new moon, my eyelashes do not bat in rapture of you.
but no, i've been told there's a langoured desperation settled in the fold of my brow, of how i am on the cusp of drunk delirium in unwavering love (if even that, it feels involuntary to love you). i've left all my open wounds to rot.
parched, the lowly moon will hang over us as this fluttering perforates through every ounce of my rationality, and i will tear myself apart in the process.
it's not the holy kind of love that flaxen my chipper eyes as it oozes everywhere it feels right – when people ask if i'm smitten in a new moon, my eyelashes do not bat in rapture of you.
but no, i've been told there's a langoured desperation settled in the fold of my brow, of how i am on the cusp of drunk delirium in unwavering love (if even that, it feels involuntary to love you). i've left all my open wounds to rot.
parched, the lowly moon will hang over us as this fluttering perforates through every ounce of my rationality, and i will tear myself apart in the process.