Your tears burn my skin. I give up, you win. I propose humongous ideas way before anyone is ready. I call it foresight. I want to call on you in the middle of the night when fright has me grasping my sheets very, very tight.
The wedding bells I hear sound like a locomotive steam engine destined to smear my honest intentions and pure tar-emitting screams of motion.
Threats of demonic souls not moving but always watching leaves me peering through drawn window shades. One knock, two knocks at my door has me in the closet hiding.
Open communication coined O.C. would wash dead sea life and algae ashore at this point, I think.
Yes, lady in the red dress I will confess I’m left singing the blues recalling my stagefright ruining the chemistry that was alive and well. Write me a letter and include a return address. Give me another chance at bat, I want to smack one into left field and run all the bases. How’s that sound?
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