Be the Peter to my Wendy and we’ll grow young together.
With nimble feet and sewn on shadows we’ll drift into a bank of memories
piled high and stored in well-lit jars for our wrinkled years.
For now we’re starched and pressed, left to flutter in sun-soaked breezes,
teased by peeling laughter and never ending midnights.
If linings are silver then fillers are gold.
I’d still sell my soul so this would never get old.
Be the Peter to my Wendy and we’ll grow young together,
leaving fingerprints and marks on everything we touch.