i want the deep, down silent things that are locked in your heart.
the beautiful innuendos of future, the streaming bittersweet decline, the inanimate objects we call home. my discarded, heartless ramblings, destined to never see seriousness until the light at the end of the tunnel flickers out.
the hovering bird goes to sleep.
go back to bed.
all i want is to put my hands between your ribs and know that i'm somewhere in there.