You and I we share this open wound,
yours down low, me enough to drive every man
even the very boys far out past the glen, beyond to the valleys even
somewhere towards punk obscurity, bleeding there profuse and ably.
Its all beautiful there past your closed window blinds and
no matter how much I cry or scream to the void beyond you you remain
Unmovable.
No that's still you, yes it's there, unflappable yes
it lives between the starshine reflecting back at us sometimes yes
it matters still, no I don't want to go away from this yes
I will.
I want to see those gents in black lounge there under a hot sun, look
out upon the Tetons and not be moved, see
the very heart of you clicking, beating away unchanged.
(I wanted to beat them)
Even that seems not to matter somehow, just long paint.
Its a twisting of your cuffs, the very walking of your dog that
is a subtle reminder that the world needs to go
somewhere that is in yet here.
For I've seen that woman in true throws of passions, I've
seen the remnants of love that could yet be (have been), I
was lucky enough to hold that hand, have it twist round
the very heart of the very part of me that matters so.
To someone, at least.
Yea, yea sure I've shared that head, that bed yea
been best, better than I've ever yet been
knew all the chords, felt the fray rising, settling,
crying now that my fingers only refused their duty to play.
No, no more - my heart it once knew they way.
No more aspiring, for she does not need it, want it - refuses even
to stand amongst the attempts at cheating or loving and hated passions all
driving us away. No she doesn't. Maybe she cant.
I'm sorry love, that now's t he time, the season grown, I'm
sorry love for these words are simply not my own I am
sorry, yet a heart of love, a life of joy I'll
forever be an attempt at holding you and this life, this gift of sweated love its gone
somehow
astray.
Adieu. Then,
you.
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