The words play a soft glow of graceless shadows, uncultivated yet breathing a lot like living. Someone's--or something--of a heart that speaks to me in grossly silhouettes. A pact of separate midnight entities I oftentimes convince myself I could touch to the tips of my fingers. The pain becomes an easy listen whenever his heart breaks harder.
A similar feeling to the kiss of fairytale skin, and the greed of money's earthing gravitational trek I could bound myself along forever. Powerless to what the stars promise will make them finally love me. Breathing is like almost living.
Peripheral closeness, black mirrors in the springtime. I can't ever get back even to the end of it.
And all of it is so selfish.
I know I'm somewhat wild for wanting to drive the boat on his canvas piece, melted away into wherever the brush leads. I know I wouldn't get anywhere in the water I'd beg him to stroke in green. A Newcastle stream.
It's like almost crying. The specks of midas touch would cover my face in heartily measure, and someday I could always dream.
