the stars, the sea, and sleep.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Getting That Intuition

I've got an excuse in every pocket that keeps my hands dry.
Each breath for every word only seems to melt snow,
Your tongue's knots come untied from the most intimate speech
And your thread loses count as you unravel out of sleep.
You sink into the sweet objectification, an oil painting of fruits
More valuable than reality and the calamity that is truth.
I taste the sugar crusted over on the corners of my lips,
The frigid air could never shake me from your mercenary quips.

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