Emma the Flautist
One of her ipod earbuds
is sitting in my ear, we're both connected
to "High" by James Blunt.
I hear her singing along, through the haze, with
That raspy voice that could mean sex,
or burnt hair, or laundry detergent.
My head rests on her bare upper thigh,
my eyes cloesd, thank god,
or maybe they'd wander.
My throat is clotting with
words better left unsaid,
or maybe I'm about to cry?
I'm content to lie, half asleep,
in this moment of contentedness,
with no comment to the stagnant air
or anyone blabbering.
Her eyes are the color of October.
is sitting in my ear, we're both connected
to "High" by James Blunt.
I hear her singing along, through the haze, with
That raspy voice that could mean sex,
or burnt hair, or laundry detergent.
My head rests on her bare upper thigh,
my eyes cloesd, thank god,
or maybe they'd wander.
My throat is clotting with
words better left unsaid,
or maybe I'm about to cry?
I'm content to lie, half asleep,
in this moment of contentedness,
with no comment to the stagnant air
or anyone blabbering.
Her eyes are the color of October.
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