—holy, holy, holy.
he stares at you, so hard you can feel it burning your skin,
and you think maybe he’ll kiss you,
or maybe he’ll eat you alive. you haven’t decided yet.

—holy, holy, holy.
in the end, it's a kiss, real as a punch and twice as hard,
and it hurts like a bullet pearling into flesh,
hurts like his eyes on the back of your neck, on your collarbones,
on your lips.

bastille // the neighbourhood // kings of leon

13 tracks