The songs seem clean. Like the plains have held on to the spring for too long. And now they're letting go. Baring the branches. Folding up the dried petals. //in caption// Spring leaves. The songs seem clean. Like the plains have held on to the spring for too long. And now they're letting go. Baring the branches. Folding up the dried petals. The wind sings clean. I know asking questions is good. That the silver in the tongue only makes it heavier and no words come out. No kisses smile. No smiles caress skin. I know asking questions and bearing the brutality of them makes things easier. But the answers come heavy sometimes. The songs clean them out. The dust that makes words seem heavy, the songs clean them up. The wind sings clean.
