Traced in wet sand her name in perfect cursive
A love letter to the crescent moon
"By tomorrow it will be gone" I told her
"There is no tomorrow" she said
I can feel her in a bikini of coiled snakes dancing to the hiss of the wind
Postcards from a paradise in flames

"There is no tomorrow" she said
I can feel her in a bikini of coiled snakes dancing to the hiss of the wind
Postcards from a paradise in flames

She used to be so right
So right about everything