I don't know what to tell you to make you kiss me. I want you to look at me like I look at you. You walk like the ground is much softer and lighter, you're stepping on clouds when I'm stepping on harsh, scalding pavement; the sun bothers your eyes and you blink too many times not to wear sunglasses; your hair could be described in a sixteenth century poem, along with my platonic love and mysterious desires; your lips surround the blunt or cigarette, I can't stop looking at you, waiting you'll kiss me.
You're not an easy life or steady soul, nor even a guaranteed death along with criminals and suicidal psychos. You drive along with no destiny, except at least a trustworthy wall where you can lean on. Safety is your only requirement, even if you don't always step on secure grounding; you're always on the edge of a merrier death, keep driving along to nowhere.
