( a bed of violets )

 

breathing, and alive

I wonder on a Sunday night how your mind tricks itself. 

I am who I am to love you

A quiet world war three, an aviation pilot 

A bed of violets lied down with million forgotten promises and burned love letters.

Making the sheets smell like gardenias at night with your whiskey breath, my merlot stains

seems to be my few last resorts to figure,

if you want me or not.

You are very high, 

and brave.

I raise you even higher, with some sparkling sights

I serve you on 3 am next to some dark make out heavens.