muteYou are beautiful. Your words equate to glass bottlescollapsing on the dance floor.Those black and white beatsagainst my coloured-in facenever once made contactand my focus heaved its way to you.The room was packed full of noise and dysfunctional shadow,and only me and you welcomed the vacant air in,I savoured pure Sambuca lips,iced over and leaving me with a ghostly perception.You coiled between my hands,my waiting eyes were on look outfor your vanishing act.It was bound to come soon becauseyou love the clunk of my bodyas it clashes on the ground,don't you?Light thrashed against faceless bodiesas they moved close against this song,hands and arms reached deep inside the verseand pulled the life back out.Music is made from love, you see,trapped in dead soundand fastened tight in words.Yes, music is made from love,each note slams hardagainst your heartwhen love topples over, when love goes away.I didn't notice this until I met youand you dared to ask
necrophiliawe're not surviving of latebut no one's yet been made a checkmate.the party mix music mucus is getting too thicklike the smoke that curls around uslike toxic, uninterested "friends". (friends, see: accessories)we wear them.and we can't get our tongues deep enough, no matter how long and strongno matter the width and breadth of the bongno matter how utterly inebriated - absolutely intoxicatedoh we can't get our tongues deep enough inside to really taste eachotherwe can't get deep enough to call eachother's bluff. (its rare that his pupil meets her pupil its rare that he can see his heart beating behind her retinas. but it happens.