we taste the threads of revolution,

Graze it against our fingertips, run it down my spine

We become the rebellion, the heartache

The world.

High in a tent on the beach I kiss your fingertips

Telling you you're free

Your hands trip and tumble saying things you wont and

words don't matter but you whisper them anyway

my lips burn with the combined weight of our confessions

yours, mine

the way I ache for more than you can give me and you want more than I let go

but were constant now, hands on hips and through your hair

a magnetic force pulls me towards you but keeps me hovering inches from your skin

some kind of tension and knowing,

the way the world knows some things shouldn't be together

I crash my body into yours and ignore the smoke signals