What’s caught in your jaws collapses the night,
Technicolored tongues spit glittered and nice,
I won’t disrobe your meadow, no,
Your slight of hand’s polite
But hands can’t command what a trembling invites.
How we appear so warped within our clothes,
Our mothers dropped us here with nowhere to go.
And now it hangs over me and you the violet turbulence of night,
Our pump is spitting out of the moon every tear we’ve ever cried,
Someday every water drop will have run through an eye,
So I stick my tongue out to catch yours and you bring yours to cradle mine.