I'm excavating the Summer sky,
Past my cloudy conclusions.
The street pulses footsteps,
Yours yet to arrive.
I am trembling hopeful,
You are achingly beautiful,
I'm twisting on beams of the sun,
You don't believe, but It's your sun.
I recognise those weary outlines,
Those sketches of old storylines,
In a morbid dance with suspicion,
Fearing with
(
Read more... )