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Now I mean what I see in an angry dream of you, the one with slim green eyes and stories the size of youth. I swear my eyes are in keeping with the beauty of you as you sweep away brightly. It's a nightmare move of sorts with its nickel of spent dolls. Although you are too close for me to see, I turn into myself without falling. Where the street crosses your mind, we are haunted by it and slip into the slick animal that drives us. Tags at the end stain us with its name. The thrust of what comes to us is a girl juggling dimes. And a space that backs the black opposite of what we need is why we have these seats and will always seem to be crying.
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