It’s the golden age of lying

And I’m having my own slumber party,

No orgy,
But I’m a man
The kind with real lips and new desires
Who touches a guitar like a crying woman with red hair
washing her sins, clothes and old flames in a cold river.
Somewhere in Canada,
Logs float in the sky, all the fish whisper this protective little story
On a hidden piece of beach on our favorite white island
It’s an unusual swoon
The way you understand me or read me, in my sleep, a fast car that I stole
As if I’m never too far from your sadness, nor loss
Cause we’re twins
Of the same revolving self-doubting agony
We melt in
This wild soft tenderness
Feminine and masculine blend
Hot, humid and sandy
Getting out of our pores
While
Through the darkness
You still manage
from my dance with water, death,
concentric circles and splashes of destiny
To scream
Stop.
Veronica, stop.