Trace around her lips with his fingers, he tries to draw on a smile,
«Give it time. These scars are the stars that will show you the light.»
And now she’s all he sees;
he stays awake to watch her breathe the unheard
melodies; the grace notes of her restless sleep.
Hold me now, don’t let it fade away from here. It’s so clear???‚¬?¦
His tattered undershirt???‚¬???a souvenir that she likes to breathe in.
She sighs???‚¬???days spent doing nothing unconscious of time.
And now he’s all she sees;
she stays awake to watch him breathe the unknown
poetry; sweet sonnets of how it should be.
And everybody might just have these same ideas—
these same plans—I suppose…
We’ve found a perfect niche:
where plastic meets perfect, kill substance for style…
But inside, we get burned by the fuel that we cannot deny.