All I need is to spot the dancers arc
Made from your hand to your fingertips
Then I know it's you.
So as we wander from clique to clique
Get smothered in insignificance,
Just passing through.
In the bedlam, I search for that familiar arc to catch your wrist.
We'll tower in grins, too far ahead for them to ever close in.
What's secondhand to us is new to everyone else
A slow aspiration.
Enjoying our time spent snared in the dissent
A slow quiet strum.
In the bedlam, I search for that familiar arc to catch your wrist.
With bottomless brow lines, pale eyes, and thin skin
We'll tower in grins, too far ahead for them to ever close in.