Backbeat like an axe. Coming down on the melody. Time to give into. Better living through the chemistry. . Eight foot letters. Can't read the writing.
Everything's a mess. I sleep but don't undress. Drinking all but the Tia Maria. . I never finished any of these books. Hanging open like house plants.
Your tear walked down from my fingertip. Like a ladybug sidetracked from it's fated trip. We never got to the touching and feeling. 'Cause the skin's too sensitive when the wounds are healing.