“Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
and dress them in warm clothes again.
How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running
until they forget that they are horses.”—Richard Siken, “Scheherazade” (via mirroir)
I know just how to whisper, and I know just how to cry; I know just where to find the answers; and I know just how to lie. I know just how to fake it, and I know just how to scheme; I know just when to face the truth, and then I know just when to dream. And I know just where to touch you, and I know just what to prove; I know when to pull you closer, and I know when to let you loose. And I know the night is fading, and I know that time’s gonna fly; and I’m never gonna tell you everything I’ve got to tell you, but I know I’ve got to give it a try. And I know the roads to riches, and I know the ways to fame; I know all the rules and then I know how to break ‘em and I always know the name of the game.
But I don’t know how to leave you, and I’ll never let you fall; and I don’t know how you do it, making love out of nothing at all…