I've been making love with a ghost,
And as he stares at me, I see myself just as hollow as him,
Wrapping and accepting every bit of cold and plasmatic caress,
Burning out from the last joy,
Sleeping alone in the left bed.
Numbered lovers and letters threw by side,
Love as the last pellicle, or first issue,
And wherever you are, haunt me
From the day I was born 'till I die.
So then again I breath,
And I go on, with the lack of life,
Making love with a ghost, blinding my skies.
Sep 3, 2020
Sep 3, 2020 at 1:01 AM UTC
I've been making love with a ghost,
And as he stares at me, I see myself just as hollow as him,
Wrapping and accepting every bit of cold and plasmatic caress,
Burning out from the last joy,
Sleeping alone in the left bed.
Numbered lovers and letters threw by side,
Love as the last pellicle, or first issue,
And wherever you are, haunt me
From the day I was born 'till I die.
So then again I breath,
And I go on, with the lack of life,
Making love with a ghost, blinding my skies.
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