glass lungs - Temp | Текст песни

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• Temp

Written to the buzz of summer heat
And winter's harshest creative silence

The summer's days have passed since I've laid down in the grass and watched airplanes draw circles in the skies. I'm not a scholar. I can't write this out in the flat gray sky. What is falling out is a blank white page where I scribbled this out in a twenty-cent notebook, and then I ripped it out.

"Dear you who reads:
In this heart I will keep you. Put a white fence up between awake and me 'cause of the snow in this note you hold. I hope the snow doesn't get to you the way it did me. This coat is buttoned to my throat, and what's on my wrist is just a balled up fist, not an airplane drawing circles in the skies; crossing its T's and dotting i's."

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