Hopped up in the garden
Smoke swirls in the cold.
My hand climbs up your thigh.
Your eyes rip thru my fold.
We brag about a life not lived.
We stumble home to notes.
I’d take it now if you’d let me,
The words climb up my throat.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 3:28 PM UTC
Hopped up in the garden
Smoke swirls in the cold.
My hand climbs up your thigh.
Your eyes rip thru my fold.
We brag about a life not lived.
We stumble home to notes.
I’d take it now if you’d let me,
The words climb up my throat.
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