Remember when our so-called friend would not call out to you while tumbling loosely out a hole punched through your home? It's pretty clear, though you could hear, you truly finally knew, in time, he'd tell his tale the way he'd like it told. Now he isn't on the phone, and his story might as well be so. Well, loving is as loving does, and I'd say we should know, because we both have loved, have lost, and are alone. Your face's falling tears, to me they're lovely and they're dear, though you don't love me and it's clear that I will never see you in my arms. There's no room in your heart for even this finely-sharpened dart; although I had started to think there might be hope, it isn't so. So wake up, make up some new song again around the same tune. The water cools, the leaves they fall, the sun it bends, the summer ends; our so-called friend doesn't need you. So proceed out the door and down the
street. December's lying
near, but in the oven's heat this house is now a home.
Sixty days of trips and stays
you took to tell me, dear,
that you cannot love me
because you secretly still love a stone. Although I put
my lips to your face, trying to push his kiss out of its
place, although my heart started to race, now it has slowed, I'll let