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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 |
