you’re the pink-dripped prints in the snow
of a wounded buck;
i’m the bullet in your back
you’re the little stories i was told
of prints on the shore;
i’ve forgotten the feel of sand in my toes
you’re the between of me and the moon
far too much to cross;
i’m burning so slow for you
you’re asking me to light your cigarettes
wires wormed below your skin;
i lean over the sheets towards you, and
you’re gripping your fingers tight in my hair
bones against a hospital bed;
i’m coming down, right down to the end.
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 10:51 PM UTC
you’re the pink-dripped prints in the snow
of a wounded buck;
i’m the bullet in your back
you’re the little stories i was told
of prints on the shore;
i’ve forgotten the feel of sand in my toes
you’re the between of me and the moon
far too much to cross;
i’m burning so slow for you
you’re asking me to light your cigarettes
wires wormed below your skin;
i lean over the sheets towards you, and
you’re gripping your fingers tight in my hair
bones against a hospital bed;
i’m coming down, right down to the end.
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