Your skin is dark like the passionate sin we commit with every glance out of the corner of our eyes, over our shoulders, directly into the sun.
Overwhelming our retinas with light, embellishing our minds with abstract, dancing spectacles.
The brilliant sphere pouring energy into our pupils can't spare us the agony of fantasies buzzing in our ears, raising our tastebuds in vain. It can't save us from the pain of these visions, yet to be born to our flesh. It can't keep out the wonderful darkness of four small letters.
It can't provide an escape from the in-between.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC
Your skin is dark like the passionate sin we commit with every glance out of the corner of our eyes, over our shoulders, directly into the sun.
Overwhelming our retinas with light, embellishing our minds with abstract, dancing spectacles.
The brilliant sphere pouring energy into our pupils can't spare us the agony of fantasies buzzing in our ears, raising our tastebuds in vain. It can't save us from the pain of these visions, yet to be born to our flesh. It can't keep out the wonderful darkness of four small letters.
It can't provide an escape from the in-between.
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