Traced in a 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