Neptunes-Sparks

To love you, is to love a crime. You are water, and I am fire. You touch me turning me to smoke in the night. But you always decide smoky stars aren't for you. To love you, is to stick my fist in a mirror. You count the shards in my skin The way people count pennies: Delicately, patiently, an art form of itself. To love you, is to carve a script in my bones. You write my life as though it were a rough draft: Cliché, too many stopping points, and too many open endings. Prohibiting a reader to ever have too much of me. To love you, is to say that you're right about everything. That you are smart in closing me off. That being scared of myself is alright. To love you, is to lose who I am now. My painfully loyal trauma: We clash the way a solar eclipse appears: A war of one having to outshine the other.

To love you, is to love a crime. You are water, and I am fire. You touch me turning me to smoke in the night. But you always decide smoky stars aren't for you. To love you, is to stick my fist in a mirror. You count the shards in my skin The way people count pennies: Delicately, patiently, an art form of itself. To love you, is to carve a script in my bones. You write my life as though it were a rough draft: Cliché, too many stopping points, and too many open endings. Prohibiting a reader to ever have too much of me. To love you, is to say that you're right about everything. That you are smart in closing me off. That being scared of myself is alright. To love you, is to lose who I am now. My painfully loyal trauma: We clash the way a solar eclipse appears: A war of one having to outshine the other.

To love you, is to love a crime. You are water, and I am fire. You touch me turning me to smoke in the night. But you always decide smoky stars aren't for you. To love you, is to stick my fist in a mirror. You count the shards in my skin The way people count pennies: Delicately, patiently, an art form of itself. To love you, is to carve a script in my bones. You write my life as though it were a rough draft: Cliché, too many stopping points, and too many open endings. Prohibiting a reader to ever have too much of me. To love you, is to say that you're right about everything. That you are smart in closing me off. That being scared of myself is alright. To love you, is to lose who I am now. My painfully loyal trauma: We clash the way a solar eclipse appears: A war of one having to outshine the other.