Hear how they cry into their soft cotton sheets, holding each other the whole time. Hear how they weep for a wilted rose, best friends, falling into a lazy embrace and yawning in a waiting room in a universe where this song would play in the elevator on the way up to the office.
But the muzak’s actually a code word, which, when you press it just right, kiss it just right, on its bottom lip, on its soft neck, opens a secret door that parts like crushed velvet curtains.
You’re led into a hazy club for lovers only where the muzak’s actually the backing track for a somnambulist duo up on a little stage all fuzzed out on an idea of champagne and petals strewn across the bed.
Kisses to these heart-melting blessings sent straight from Barcelona via this perfect pair, who you can and should hear more of here.
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