Drawn to your canvas shoes and charcoal skin.
The temperate colors you were painted in.
2:45 and I'm mooning over your pure hue wondering,
Why you haven't squeezed out of that tubular life I found you in.
Watercolor tears emulsified by inert years,
Wash away the impressionism you pressed over your fears.
3:45 and I'm looking for a place in the sun to dry my freshly painted sin.
I guess it's safe to say, these tubular lives, we're bound by them.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 3:30 PM UTC
Drawn to your canvas shoes and charcoal skin.
The temperate colors you were painted in.
2:45 and I'm mooning over your pure hue wondering,
Why you haven't squeezed out of that tubular life I found you in.
Watercolor tears emulsified by inert years,
Wash away the impressionism you pressed over your fears.
3:45 and I'm looking for a place in the sun to dry my freshly painted sin.
I guess it's safe to say, these tubular lives, we're bound by them.
