Summer (Butcher Two)
MATTHEW MORRIS POND
Saturday night
The summer's here
Under clothes hands disappear
Buttons slip
They've gone stray
With them thoughts have gone away
Too far to see from the back seat
Where sleeping is the enemy
In our hands
Is more sense
Than butchered words we don't understand
To ourselves
Our skin sticks
Our palms sweat
Our teeth click
Flashing glimpses do not see
When daylight is the enemy
I can barely see your blue eyes
I can barely make them out
It's alright in this red
Your mouth tastes perfectly like cigarettes
It's okay
It is fine
There's nothing just one thing on our mind
Saturday night
Summer's here
The sound of breath is in our ears
Guess the coast is completely clear
Into water we disappear