Text:
La Dispute Vancouver

I'm reading over your shoulders, it says it in every line, in ever curve and crack. it says it in every detail of your face, unmistakably apparent

(Crows, wipe the blood from the end of your claws. Said the vulture Lets gather like storms for the war. Crows, as the night turns its skin into coal

We move by instinct, darling let our hands be hatchets, let us wander blindly, swinging madly in a forest made of flesh. we move by instinct, darling

Oh, you've a pretty mouth, leave your lips to linger on my skin and kiss me one last time i will roll off your tongue like a whisper in the winter

It's perfectly ok, I'm afraid, too