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Chance might find a moment, look at what a chance done. It’s just a flick of the tongue, impossible one. Searching for the body, or just to tease it out some. We were contriving and young. It was so sexy.
You came out of the alabaster skies I guess, or sprung up from the thistles there, to find your way to 2nd Street. I remember how you walked to me (how you walked to me) with sun-spot eyes in a diamond light on a certain day on 2nd Street. With swaying arms you walked to me (how you walked to me).
Cut out on the message and gone before the bell rung. We’ll catch our breath on the run, impossible one. Searching without science. Look at what the hands done. We were contriving and young. It was so sexy.
Then every airless night when we ate nothing and smoked up all your cigarettes, I couldn’t keep but mindfully shaking as you talked to me (how you talked to me), how everything seemed dangerous and every corner sharpening, and sharper as you talked to me (how you talked to me).
Baby’s gone electric. Look at what the kids done out of a chance in the sun, impossible one. Impossible to say you were the impossible one. It’s just a flick of the tongue. It was so sexy.