The only thing I'll read are ads for things I can't afford.
Hollow books just feel incomplete, there's no sparkle, no shine.

And I hate a little screen with bright flashing letters.
Stop predicting my future, stop wasting my time.
A "yes" perhaps.
Or maybe a "no".

A gesture to kiss my lips,
Or a cold "only if you bring a cig".

Tonight I'll be all yours, let the ink roll out over me.

Tonight, I'll hand you fallen stars,
Something bright that stings like your lips.