The airy trail of smoke drifting up from her cigarette
so light and magical, I almost forgot it was killing her.
It's cold in New York...
Step on the gas as the car lurches forward, underneath me
I hope we crash, I hope we crash.
Imagining the metal crushed into my body.
A Cold, fast, adrenaline disaster.
Whatever it takes to wake you up.
No comments:
Post a Comment