Crashed Down, Dead On the Ground (and still breathing somehow)

                                                                                                                                               

Warm, my winter of desire; snow covers the frightened

Spirits of spring, this dance is stirring a feeling so dead

This fire, my lungs have to be warmed by your breath

me i cannot breathe need the summer to burn through my leaves

as we drown them in the mailbox I am loving your microphone

while your soda comes to see that dead tongue

I lick your fingers and taste the ghost whiskey inside your lungs

I fall through the pages of your bible and tonight I burn for my sins

a witch on trial for crimes i cannot begin to explain.

your lips are beautiful
you're such a blue screen
the machine's making noise as we dream.