(no subject)
the rain slides down the window panes, like his hands slid down her back
in the dark they light the room
and it becomes apparent why love is the breath in every body's chest
The heart feeds on it
Knuckles crack back to stretch the limbs
Now fingers bend
And exercise their design into the canvas' white
There is color in the pressure of a man
Symphony contradicts harmony
plucking each grain of the window's glass
Imagination produces paint in each finger's pore
Mapping out the city on her skin
Mapping out his heart on top of her ribs
Pressing passion into solace... and solace into bodies
Making art for a living.
in the dark they light the room
and it becomes apparent why love is the breath in every body's chest
The heart feeds on it
Knuckles crack back to stretch the limbs
Now fingers bend
And exercise their design into the canvas' white
There is color in the pressure of a man
Symphony contradicts harmony
plucking each grain of the window's glass
Imagination produces paint in each finger's pore
Mapping out the city on her skin
Mapping out his heart on top of her ribs
Pressing passion into solace... and solace into bodies
Making art for a living.