Catfish کے بول

Crave, desolate, you dive in, we follow along. I contrive you with whiskey and Sam Cooke songs and we lay on our backs, soaking wet below a static tv set. Conversation flows, counting shooting stars and catfish, but I'll never make a wish. Barefoot, parking lot getting high in Portland, OR. We echo 17 and we glue it back and poke fun and it gets real quiet, I don't care. Darting with moonshine, truth or dare I say just what I'm thinking and second guess instantly and you laugh at me. We stick to our slow motion memory. It's 1 in the morning and 90 degrees and though now it is hovering darkly over me, it'll look just like heaven when I get up and leave. You're a ghost and I can't breathe.