“Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
âŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸand dress them in warm clothes again.
âŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸHow it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running
until they forget that they are horses.
âŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸIt’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,
âŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸit’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,
âŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸhow we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
âŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸto slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means
âŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸwe're inconsolable.
âŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸTell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
âŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸâŸTell me we’ll never get used to it.”
―
Richard Siken,
Crush
