Catching eyes in the midst of the delusion.
Fingers intertwined, smiles barely touching the lips.
No one to look at in a crowd full of haze but you.
No one to find my demons but you.
The slow beautiful turmoil of young love
has me wishing upon stars
and counting the freckles on your arm.
So real, the feeling, the joy, lasting.
What sort of naivete is this?
Too lost by the dream to read between your lies.
Or maybe just cautiously optimistic?
Either way the wind blows.
My heart in your hands, oh but alas
It’s a Russian roulette and I stand here
questioning my luck.
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