Fingers through yr hair

2.24.09

Around the bend into the trees along the river, there in the backseat, the stars flood through the glass. March is coming, I am old. I am older than some things. Many things are older. I take them in and I carry them in a beautiful box with me wherever I may go. Showing them to careless travelers, ignorance of bliss, they with their car as their exoskeleton down the highway. May flies through June and I pick up all of the pieces. Too cold to see your face, too hot to want to see it. The days wind through the years, time becoming a more distant friend, I miss your face, I miss my chances I had. The cold is coming again, the winds will blow somehow from the north and nobody, nobody will ever understand why. But here and now in my Greek dreams, the sun has set and the cold has set in my bones. Foolish thoughts have come and gone, chances not taken, rum undrinkable. Quiet beauty presses against my soul, washed away in sleep, love under the bridge-- love under the gun. Though I've gone so far, so far over the line, and I can't come back-- let me feel your love one more time-- before I disappear.