Will we still have time to kiss and make up, when the world's already crumbling, when what's left of our breaths are taken to preposterous heights, when the skin becomes parched like the weight of heavy time?
Will we have time to kiss and make up, when forgiveness is naught, the heart turns to lava rock, and the knives in your tongue are mightier than any kind of black-inked pen?
Will time allow us to kiss and make up when the cracks on your lips and the creases on your forehead become too frighteningly deep
they drown me to sleep?
they drown me to sleep?
So tell me, is it too late to hold your eyes when all they do is find me?
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