the fever of the evening comes upon us
and again we find ourselves into the cups
half drunk, half in love, but never full enough
and the words we discuss

cut

revealing fresh blood, warm to the touch
the taste of salt and iron on the tongue
speaking what we whisper in our waking lives
with a certainty that would make sober hands

tremble

as I listen I can feel your potential
in subtle pauses and hope soaked syllables
I do not want this night to weigh upon us
I do not want your words to mean nothing

tomorrow

the morning sun will rise, whitewashing drunk lies
do not allow these dreams of other lives to die
for every second you wait is but another grain
escaping your grasp into the abyss of time

live