Dec 2013
Her blue eyes say what mine cannot.
When it comes to us, we are the muffled silence on rocky sunrises,
hushes the morning with a faint orange feeling.
Two of the same, but we fit together like jigsaw pieces.
We are not different in the way we sit, oh, but when she walks,
poised, i know she is elevated far above me.
Unobtainable, boys sneer words they don't understand towards us as if
their words are venom flicking from their tongues to ****.
Oh, and she, she talks her broken words and I could listen for ages, sinfully indulging in what I cannot have.
By standard definition, is it aesthetic or platonic or am I falling for her?
People talk against the beauty we form together
when our two hearts merge into one, constant
and rocking like tidal waves constantly lapping the surface of our cheeks.
And they say we are abominations: we, together, are abnormal.
As they push us down and say they are saving their love
that is soggy like tomato juice bleeding through the sides of a sandwich
and broken, abused, but we are the abnormality while our love is
punctured only by night and new like stardust every morning.
How can our love be wrong when it becomes an art form?
I want her to imprint her faded red lipstick on my bare lips through the silence.
They do little else but talk and talk and their words are spit, filled with hate, while we,
we whisper promises in each other's ears as the sun rises on the rocks and pillows in our dreams.
All they do is hate and hate so blindly.
Their words scrape the sides of concrete condemnation,
but what we plead is love that fills up novels.
They don't know passion unless they're smearing freedoms we can't have in front of our faces.
Our lines aren't fed to us from a book
and I guess that's why when she touches me I know she exists.
Why would anyone hate us?
We love and love and it is so breathtaking and, oh my God,
how can you hate our love if it's become an art form?
Her blue eyes say what mine cannot.
When it comes to us, we are the muffled silence on rocky sunrises,
hushes the morning with a faint orange feeling.
Two of the same, but we fit together like jigsaw pieces.
We are not different in the way we sit, oh, but when she walks,
poised, i know she is elevated far above me.
Unobtainable, boys sneer words they don't understand towards us as if
their words are venom flicking from their tongues to ****.
Oh, and she, she talks her broken words and I could listen for ages, sinfully indulging in what I cannot have.
By standard definition, is it aesthetic or platonic or am I falling for her?
People talk against the beauty we form together
when our two hearts merge into one, constant
and rocking like tidal waves constantly lapping the surface of our cheeks.
And they say we are abominations: we, together, are abnormal.
As they push us down and say they are saving their love
that is soggy like tomato juice bleeding through the sides of a sandwich
and broken, abused, but we are the abnormality while our love is
punctured only by night and new like stardust every morning.
How can our love be wrong when it becomes an art form?
I want her to imprint her faded red lipstick on my bare lips through the silence.
They do little else but talk and talk and their words are spit, filled with hate, while we,
we whisper promises in each other's ears as the sun rises on the rocks and pillows in our dreams.
All they do is hate and hate so blindly.
Their words scrape the sides of concrete condemnation,
but what we plead is love that fills up novels.
They don't know passion unless they're smearing freedoms we can't have in front of our faces.
Our lines aren't fed to us from a book
and I guess that's why when she touches me I know she exists.
Why would anyone hate us?
We love and love and it is so breathtaking and, oh my God,
how can you hate our love if it's become an art form?
Her blue eyes say what mine cannot.
