Something will erupt. Straining stockings, aching chains
The dress that pops off from too much affection
and bursts, busts, breasts that swell
In a too-tight brassiere.
A fist muscle growing as a hand tightens.
A perfume called Volcano of Love...
in French. France is waiting to erupt.
Painted nails scratch a surface,
scratch sin off so something can erupt. Something will.
Oh, the beat of our blood in our necks.
The flutter of blood in our guts.
We know what that is. We all know what that is.
I have a good ear tonight.
I have intuition worth your weight on my lap.
I am nothing to put to rest. I am nothing but a fireball. Take it.
Take it and something will erupt.
Tomorrow, no noisy mournings.
Tomorrow, a collection of regrets.
We'd wanted them for so long. They can ruin our lives.
We'll read about them in our biographies
when we're dead, dead, stone-cold dead.
A paragraph about what we never once mentioned,
A paragraph describing how we managed a secret.


By: Michele Neves =)