I see you coming into the room; in a floral skirt whose flowers fall down with each swirl. Along with the wave of your dark hair floating in the air, you stop in front of the mirror. Dipping your hand into the darkness of the waives, your pale fingers play around in your hair. You close your eyes and it feels that it is my tanned hand that plays with your dark hairs; my fingers play and play and play with your hair until they accomplish a sweet feminine serenity covering the dreams in your eyes.
Through the curls of the eyelashes, you look at me, I think. And I think my body shivers from the dept of those eyes.
You close your eyes and I am ready to sleep. Beautiful is this half slept face.
Through the curls of the eyelashes, you look at me, I think. And I think my body shivers from the dept of those eyes.
You close your eyes and I am ready to sleep. Beautiful is this half slept face.
You open your eyes: above the mirage of those dark eyes in the mirror, you stare at us.
When your pale fingers leave the dark hairs, I am gone.
When your pale fingers leave the dark hairs, I am gone.
The ring of the new silver phone rings and rings in and out of your head.
Someone, maybe me, is calling your name from the dept of a mirror's dream.
Someone, maybe me, is calling your name from the dept of a mirror's dream.
You turn to the phone and I know that you wish that it be me.
Edited on Feb14th2013
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