Matt Pond Pa

Saturday night
the summer is here
under clothes
hands dissappear
buttons slip
they've gone stray
with them thoughts
have gone away
too far to see
from the back seat
where sleeping is the enemy
in our hands
theres more sense
butchered words
dont understand
to ourselves
our skin sticks
our palms sweat
our teeth click
flashing glimpses
do not see
when daylight is the enemy
i can barely
see your blue eyes
i can barely
make them out
its alright,
in this realm
your mouth tastes perfectly like ciggarettes
its okay
it is fine
theres nothing, just one thing on our mind
saturday night
the summers here
the sound of breath
is in our ears
yes the coast
is completely clear
to wonder, we dissappear.