eleven february
three : twenty-one p.m.

"i want mad mad love, that drives like an old motorbike accross a desert full of rattlesnake, wind rushing by, fingertips that cry..i want lingering looks accross a heady dancefloor and fuck me glances that turn into nothing more than tender kisses.."

me, too. only, i'm not brave enough. and i'm still afraid of consequences.

but i see him and i can't take my eyes off him and i know that he's not thinking the same things i am, but it's still there and i'm still feeling guilty.

music : bright eyes
literature : junk mail
fixation : markers