That feel of your hand in mine,
fingers slipping through fingers,
cold against hot,
gloves or no gloves,
where I cannot remember
the taste of your lips,
except in fragments
of certain songs.
That feel of your hand in mine,
fingers slipping through fingers,
cold against hot,
gloves or no gloves,
where I cannot remember
the taste of your lips,
except in fragments
of certain songs.