Liquid silk drips from my fingers
My thirty eager fingers
Playing thirty eager chords
on my white and sprawling harp

Plucking at the strings
Like threads fine
silver and white
they shine
(it is night)

It is night and the world is dark
but for glimmering on my harp a single light
lamp like spotlight, hot overhead
i stretch my toes where they balance me on the ropes

sitting by cold glass
i watch the word go by
with my eight beady eyes
and wait for that promising fly
(it is night)

It is night and the word is still
but for my fingers plucking at the strings
of a heart-harp-home, contrast to my dark-clothed figure
silhouetted in the windowsill where i have a woven a tiny, quiet song

i believe in a gentle kind of love
all soft and soothing and
just right
when i am so terribly, irritatingly fragile
fingers running down my back while we lie
rib to rib, heart to heart
listening to the beat, and to the breath
and perhaps it is that, in this world of rough and tumble
of screaming and aching, to believe in a love kind and sweet is
a naivety but i find that
because of all this roaring outside our window, i much prefer
to think of that love sweet and kind
and us, tangled around each other, i think, yes

i find that i believe in a gentle sort of love

Not knowing, where the universe begins
Or how far, the darkness extends
Can one know, where it actually ends

my eyes were opened
a genuine development
of a feeling i had only
heard about from others
i pretended time after time
to feel this feeling
but what i felt was a fraud
i did not know what
was wrong with me
or if i was incapable
of truly experiencing love
finding you was
the first time
breathing felt easier
and living was worth
being around for
but now that
i’ve experienced it
i will never be able
to lose you
or i will never
breathe again.

Usually spooled
pink fluffy

sugary stuff
it's there

in your mouth
then it dissolves

here
then we're not

parting
is never sweet sorrow

senseless
maybe