I am a mess with you, even messier without you
So come on, stroke me gently with your thorn as I mistake it for a brush
And smear the blood you call love over me as I mistake it for paint
Let's create a tragedy and call it art.
YOU ARE READING
Moonlight Hours
PoesiaWhat happens when two strangers sit under the sky every night and look into each other's eyes? They fall in love.
