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Gypsy Chandeliers

Saturday morning wake up call:
his hands inching around my waist.
My eyes awakened to see his face,
and I swear my heart stopped beating.
Felt myself clinging to this as if it were
a dream but it proved to be reality’s
perfect nightmare.

He smirked into my eyes with his,
and my skin crawled towards the warmth
that escaped it.
His hands slid up and down my spine but
instead of calling quits, I ran the course
I made myself.

Tonight you stole what I was giving.
Tonight I lost what I was sharing.
But come tomorrow morning, I’ll be on
repeat, singing songs about the beauty
and pretending that it was everything I
wanted.

Saturday morning, the room was on fire.
But he kept on pulling, kept on going.
Saturday morning, the feeling was numb,
but he never stopped to ask.
This morning, the room was spinning,
but I never stood up to stop the spiral.

He mentioned something in a three word
phrase, but the song skipped the tone.
He mention something in a three word
phrase, but it lost all meaning.

Tonight you stole what I was giving.
Tonight I lost what I was sharing.
But come, tomorrow morning,
come, tomorrow morning.
Please come,
tomorrow morning.

Sunday morning wake up call:
he left with the quickest shuffle.
My jaded heart didn’t change it’s
rhythm.
Felt myself feeling free.
Dreaming on Sunday morning.

Sunday morning wake up call:
he left with the quickest shuffle.
My jaded heart didn’t change it’s
rhythm.
Felt myself feeling free.
Dreaming on a Sunday morning.





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