Leaving blank pages in her stride, 
"Hovering over yourself,"
Holy worlds collide, 

Leaves lining these streets, 
"I have a habit of sitting by the ting by the door,"
Ripping through my mind like a soccer field suffered onto by little cleats. 

Staring at me over her rose tinted glasses, 
"You'll find your way back to me." 
Even if all we do is sit on our a**es, 

Snow lining her kisses, 
"Winter is coming,"
She sighs into my sheets and asks me if she's what I misses,

Of course, of course, how could I not? 
"Constellations making their rounds." 
Off course, off course. 

Bearing my kiss over her chest, 
Spotting it through her sheer sweater, 
At last. 

Meet you at home, 
"Meet your mess first" 
How could I ever live alone?