The old house on the hill sits empty
its still structure a thousand tongues of silence...
The moon
unwinded...
We're watching the world
wake from hibernation...
it's the third week of
august and i'm eating...
I thought the fountain of my tears
had gone dry a year ago...
In this dark living room,
I stare at the street light...
Inspecting my skin like mad,
searching for a source of pain...
This will be rough, as I've had far
too many shots of vodka, yet...
A cup of coffee unwrapped
a world were darkness isn't bitter...
I was featherbrained
at thinking you...
When two hearts
find each other...
Even the clouds have ears
when she plays...