I could tell you of romance,
I could tell you of Sicily
and sanctity,
and what cold-blooded loving is like.
You can touch me like an iron blade,
rusted, perused;
and carve into me stolen serenades.
Jigsaw my dreams into sense,
I’m a little too tired of waking up alone.
We can do a give-and-take of hands
and we can go look for things we lost.
I could tell you how to love,
if you can show me how to stop.
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 10:36 PM UTC
I could tell you of romance,
I could tell you of Sicily
and sanctity,
and what cold-blooded loving is like.
You can touch me like an iron blade,
rusted, perused;
and carve into me stolen serenades.
Jigsaw my dreams into sense,
I’m a little too tired of waking up alone.
We can do a give-and-take of hands
and we can go look for things we lost.
I could tell you how to love,
if you can show me how to stop.
