Look up.
The moon is slung low tonight,
Its silver halo beaming through my window,
Spilling onto my bedsheets, covert in
Their own lightless façade:
The one that he is familiar with
And I am too;
Whores and evening primrose
Live and lie beneath it.
Its silver halo beaming through my window,
Spilling onto my bedsheets, covert in
Their own lightless façade:
The one that he is familiar with
And I am too;
Whores and evening primrose
Live and lie beneath it.