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We rule these nights with an iron-clad fist.
We stand in intersections and scream melodies to what never was or always is.
These car-seats become thrones to these winding roads, as her hands wind into mine. With a head on the window pane, her tears will paint landscapes. (She creates art, while drifting in and out of sleep.) Somewhere in the back of your heard, there's a typewriter, writing your paper-back romance.( Its fighting and struggling.) Covered in sweat.
Recovering from the last time you tried to smother it in its sleep, and it can't right if it can't breath, and if it can't breath then there's nothing for you to be afraid of.
So for now, in the right light, I just watch you dance. Twirl and spin.
All to the music you're singing. Repeating again and again, "That's more than a dress."