She's a model type,
Hip Hop, is what she calls her craft.
And...she flows,
though, I wasn't oneto catch her wave crashes
simple conversation
is enough to bring me to her beach.
But she is not land, she is my opposite...
my fire.
My desire...
wanting to spit verses of my knowledge
my bits and pieces to see what I have to serve,
is better than what the rest of them feel that she deserves,
slowly taken by the mystery that has not confirmed to be us,
I just know...
we digg the notebooks,
and sketched the floors with pens in hand
drawing out maybe the same picture
its only a matter of the connection...
if we complete where we conidered the end
and at that ending point,
the non-exhausted possibility to only begin.