Cutting Pieces Off The Moon

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