But what to do when you think you've said it all and still it's not enough? Cards are on the table, in reach of any greedy hand; in any case, a hand I chose to trust.
You picked my lips in the first place, sealing them with an eternal smile, making me incapable of letting my heart out on words. You picked my lips to caress them, to enjoy their warmth and scape the cold winter with only a move. You picked my lips and I still haven't learned to kiss you, enable to get nothing but what I gave to some others before. Doors lack in your depths and my only hope is to eventually find a window I can leave open at night, for my rain to flood you bit by bit.
I've realized one thing about us: flooding you would mean me sinking if you are not the one opening the window for me. I should not try to convince you about that, to keep us afloat.
You picked my lips in the first place, sealing them with an eternal smile, making me incapable of letting my heart out on words. You picked my lips to caress them, to enjoy their warmth and scape the cold winter with only a move. You picked my lips and I still haven't learned to kiss you, enable to get nothing but what I gave to some others before. Doors lack in your depths and my only hope is to eventually find a window I can leave open at night, for my rain to flood you bit by bit.
I've realized one thing about us: flooding you would mean me sinking if you are not the one opening the window for me. I should not try to convince you about that, to keep us afloat.
I've realized one thing about us: it does not matter how many words I put on my lips if you choose only to see the smile and pretend you are letting them in, through a nonexistent door.
I'm starting to think some cards should be kept until the chosen hands become the proper hands; until one's lips are no longer picked but hunted, not only for the other to fight the cold but to read through them... he, who would then be willing to build wide portals for one's ocean to burst in.
I'm starting to think some cards should be kept until the chosen hands become the proper hands; until one's lips are no longer picked but hunted, not only for the other to fight the cold but to read through them... he, who would then be willing to build wide portals for one's ocean to burst in.
