A streak - a smear like grease over the top half of the moon.
An hour at the top of a web of ropes - spent listening and watching - seeing.
The wind through the branches of a tree - through the souls in the branches of a tree.
A thousand spirals of smoke twisting into the air.
Every night we come together.
Arms tighter than words, words like hands grabbing and tugging at all the strings of the souls in the branches of the tree, on top of a web of ropes.
Words like notes, twisting into the air.
Another world, a world where it is easy to breathe and you look like a painting.
Ink on a blank, white page - smoke like ink, writing words on the wind like notes, twisting into the air.
A shadow on the page - falling across the ink, the words of ink and smoke.
Sparks in the air, hitting skin, burning like stars.
The moon like a cradle in the sky - a fantasy, vices remix.
So you say you want to get away - a place where there's no time, no space - listen to the waves.
Blue, lighting the sky - gently, behind clouds, below the moon.
Your hands, like smoke and water, moving across the pages with ink at their tips, striving to write melodies like the one floating on the surface of the water where you sit.
Crooked colors, filling the night-morning sky, a holiday we could take.
I'll be the one with the wisdom, the one without the frown.
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