| I'm writing you in, in pencil, trying to believe it's alright if you fade... far away from mine, your tall beauty seems out of reach, despite the looks - opened doors in turn. and i want to believe i can't fall from my place here on the ground, but i know, i know better... i've already tumbled into waiting, into writing of oranges, and romancing the time before... is it my turn? no, it's yours... |
| 12/02/03 |