this girl asks me, "gotta minute to spare?"
chapped lips and misty-eyed
while i stare enviously at her thighs,
wishing i could taste that milky white,
sits down, touches my hand
and tells me,
"the moon is dying",
something i already knew
but i cry anyway
babbling incoherently into her hands,
brush a finger over her shoulder,
dotting freckles in constellations,
the speckled stars of her irises
combust into molecules
scatter, running freely away
oh girl, we could tread these muddy waters,
traverse the land on our bare feet
and wipe the filth off our skirts
but come sundown,
we'll still sleep alone.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 5:11 AM UTC
this girl asks me, "gotta minute to spare?"
chapped lips and misty-eyed
while i stare enviously at her thighs,
wishing i could taste that milky white,
sits down, touches my hand
and tells me,
"the moon is dying",
something i already knew
but i cry anyway
babbling incoherently into her hands,
brush a finger over her shoulder,
dotting freckles in constellations,
the speckled stars of her irises
combust into molecules
scatter, running freely away
oh girl, we could tread these muddy waters,
traverse the land on our bare feet
and wipe the filth off our skirts
but come sundown,
we'll still sleep alone.
sorelle, Italian for "sisters".
