[ 'don't tell me that it's over' ]

the mistake of my lips on yours
is worth it when we breath the same air.

the hand travelling in the skin
patches the want of a tattoo shinning there, or anywhere.

the thrust of chest against chest
is the inner and mutual fight of stopping or not.

the blur of confusion in your eyes
makes sense if we try to see this situation.

we don't.

(don't ask, i don't even now from where the fuck that came from.)

the usual, me