You

Tell me heaven lies with you.

Tell me that the beating of my heart is created from the symphonies of your sinful lips.

That my fingers dance upon tabletops, causing my mother to snap "stop"

It goes and it goes,
And I'm at the tip of your iceberg, the tip of your fingertips,

I bleed and these words, these melodies that I had yet written, yet bled,

Makes for
a preachers sermon on a Sunday morning.

Tell me this isn't the workings of you.

That your thoughts that pellet like raindrops on an autumn night,

Feels like Disney's Pixar.

It becomes a hit, then a boom, and it crashes

And I'm gone like the wind,

In masses

Of angel dust.