Dream House
DeafheavenHindered by sober restlessness. Submitting to the amber crutch. The theme in my aching prose. Fantasizing the sight of Manhattan; that pour of a bitter red being that escapes a thin frame. The rebirth of mutual love. The slipping on gloves to lay tenderly.
“I’m dying.”
- “Is it blissful?”
“It’s like a dream.”
- “I want to dream.”
