"Somewhere on the other side of this wide nightand the distance between us, I am thinking of you.
The room is turning slowly away from the moon.
This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say
it is sad? In one of the tenses I singing
an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear.
La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imagine the dark hills I would
have to cross
to reach you.
and this is what it is like or what it is like in words."
The lines she gives me fit like warm socks.
In all our years all we have given each other are beautifully twisted words.
Of longing.Of lust.Of rust.
The room is turning slowly away from the moon.
This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say
it is sad? In one of the tenses I singing
an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear.
La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imagine the dark hills I would
have to cross
to reach you.
and this is what it is like or what it is like in words."
The lines she gives me fit like warm socks.
In all our years all we have given each other are beautifully twisted words.
Of longing.Of lust.Of rust.
1 comment:
For some we stole before others awoke,
and escaped beneath the two heavy strokes.
Post a Comment