at two a.m., i like to listen to one of my playlists and dance & spin to it resulting into yet another sleepless night with drunken thoughts it's inevitable, anyway; this is the best hour to be true with the moon so i scribble down these wasted words and happen to find myself with the idea of you (again) and it's terribly upsetting to know that the only thing my lips are capable of caressing is nothing but this glass of red wine
the last thing i knew, it wasn't the playlist that was making me dance like john travolta, or spin like barbie from the nutcracker— it was you