My heart, it's hands
Reaching for his soul
My wrists snap, retreat back
I guess now we'll never know
Hung up, strung out
Just searching for a sign
Horror, misanthrope
Astrological pantomime
Visions clear, so near
Like vines we intertwined
Incompatible, at the core
Who was feeding me those lines?
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 8:15 PM UTC
My heart, it's hands
Reaching for his soul
My wrists snap, retreat back
I guess now we'll never know
Hung up, strung out
Just searching for a sign
Horror, misanthrope
Astrological pantomime
Visions clear, so near
Like vines we intertwined
Incompatible, at the core
Who was feeding me those lines?
