You are the nostalgic scent of autumn rain, the earth beneath my feet, the air I breathe and I'm still standing here trying to catch my breath and my knuckles are all bruised, just like my lungs.
A tornado lives inside my chest and your touch is like an earthquake, powerful and catastrophic. Your mouth tastes like serenity mixed with ferocity and your clothes smell like menthol cigarettes and coffe, a smell I call home.
Your words are stones, one time, you threw them at my head and all of a sudden, I fell asleep.
I visited the world of anesthesia, and I danced under the starry sky, played with moon.
The world is a wonderful place.
It's 2am.
And I can't sleep. A legend says that whenever you can't sleep, a person dreams about you.
Stich up the wounds in my mind.
It's 3am. It's 4am. It's 5am and the ghosts at the end of my bed are still dancing, but that's okay because their macabric songs lull me to sleep.
It's 6am and my knees are still bruised.
I want to leave, I have to go.
My veins are deserted roads that lead my heart back to you.