You're only a vibration
pressed to scrap metal,
burned to a disk.
I can hold your voice with one hand;
I can hold your melodies with my ears.
I can hold you in my heart,
fool my body into your presence.
For epithelial tissue
is not so clever,
it cannot tell the difference between a dream and reality,
love and necessity.
Sound travels 768 miles per hour, a pace my heart races,
but I'll die before I win that game.
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 5:38 PM UTC
You're only a vibration
pressed to scrap metal,
burned to a disk.
I can hold your voice with one hand;
I can hold your melodies with my ears.
I can hold you in my heart,
fool my body into your presence.
For epithelial tissue
is not so clever,
it cannot tell the difference between a dream and reality,
love and necessity.
Sound travels 768 miles per hour, a pace my heart races,
but I'll die before I win that game.
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