The moon paints clouds with turpentine wishes and I can finally breathe again. Something inside me sells me freedom that I treat with caution. In a little while, I'll be happy. In a couple years, I'll be dead. I have no time for smiles because the skin on the back of my wrist is setting the mood for this whole episode. My friend never had the same feelings as the wave she tried so hard to tame. She keeps things inside, and wears her heart on her sleeve, tucked inside rusty armor.
I'm falling in love with the stars, a new way to share my secrets with the world. I'm open for a limited time only, a hundred percent dissatisfaction guaranteed. The sky looks different when harboring the sun. Clouds and stars are full of air, and I love the way we glide past cement trees. I just want to be happy for this brief moment in TV history. We're (all) moving on up, to that deluxe apartment in the sky. It's too bad we're afraid of heights and concrete.
