Reasons and days spill hearted desires, flipping light switches when my shop opens to the custom buyers.
I wouldn’t notice a line drawn or a cup tipping, can I sell antiques when the vase caring water starts dripping?
Does it bother you when I kiss your smile, wiping tears when water hits my tiles.
Female features distract my gaze by the flowers, do you think a needle hides within a caving hay tower?
Guilt or truth, it’s all just hidden in my concealed lips, bronze cups breeze cool winds when you gently sip.
Playing out before me while a clock narrows a minute one from three, bashful hours always leap into the mild flirtatious sea.
Come and look over my shoulder when books dream, their vintage ink drips past a worn out seam.
Lessons of a mirror, buried in a wall, fellow men purchase items that speak rhythms of a call.
Quiet your curious mind and sleep where the bed did lay, antique shop lingers perhaps a moment, in a day.