domingo, julio 01, 2007

The first kiss will never taste like the last.
The last one will always be followed
by a trail of foreign sensations
that don't find a language
to describe how wrong we were.

The last kiss will never taste like the first one.
You know I'm still waiting
with my hands in my jacket's pockets
and the same smile I've beee wearing
since the Devil knows when.

You know we're being vile.
Twenty seconds is not enough,
seconds drip from our hands
when virtue is disguised by penitence
and we're doing what's right
despite their dissapproval's eyes.

So let love be a mistake
encoded in our genes,
pressed against our jeans
and let them mind their business
while we make misfourtune our home.

So let love be a mistake
bound to remind us
that we were kids, that we were wrong
that were gods on our own right
while the dice rolled.

It's to their spite, not mine.
It's to our chills through the spine.

Archives