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