My hands hurts from writing thoughts i never send
i ve been cutting the moon
collecting pieces from the face i recall
am wondering in your room
like a ghost perpetually banging on the wall
I never thought i ll remain so much like cutting pieces
you are what hasn’t happen to me yet
while am perpetually the news from yesterday
and in your bed i always lay
my eyelash hurt from blinding myself
constantly
on my true intention
your voice is pulsing, your hands under tension
you love my neck while am collecting pieces
of the bones i hear cracking
melting in nights on sale
listening the rhythms going insane
My mouth ache from shaping words who hurts
cutting some part of the sky i wish
to collect for decorate
your dream’s corner
but you moan like a hooker
a distorted pleasure from
some still open wound
you collect pieces i never meant to offer you
and you box them in pride cause you own the nights
and what we drink are ancient knights
floating perpetually from
one frame to another
you never looked so familiar
than when i forget you, reshaping the taste of
everything who passes through
an obsessive
organ that never stop playing
constant stories who never happened
My feelings hurts from being filled with void
there is no bridge made with broken silence
you walked through desert streets dress up with indifference
while i have a glance on
my outline standing next to you
i don t want you, never did
i was just cutting pieces when you walked through
and now it feels like we are stitched
to yesterday’s sheets
i don t wanna see the morning who lays at my fits
offering is unmade body to my urge to escape from it
from you, from the scissors you took away
cutting pieces of the moon
that s when i think of you
Still: Georges Méliès
