happens, more often than not

holding shortglass, hands feel good
tongiht they'll brush across your skin
and i'll play the picasso role
with your skin
and stretch arms up, the
scent of your skin comes home
and laughter will be just another
metaphor for heaven
oh, i'll play the lenin role
and change the way you move and
feel, or at least think about certaint hings
you'll be thinking of me
you'll be tearing old ideas from
storybooks and pasting
them beneath pictures of us
and i'll be looking at you:
fine eyes stretch across you...
i adore you the way myths
are made...

2003-11-19 | 1:11 p.m.
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