Love.
A dangerous, cantankerous thing. No anchor is made for this
Pen and paper blamed for it, if I had a name for it
If I had a name for it, then I would be a slave for it
She said that I scoff too often
That I'm often too lost in the moment
The moment we first met, she smelled like a poem. Like loose leaves in the fall.
She had me falling like a paper plane with clipped wings
Winging it onstage because I reached the spotlight and forgot all my lines
She said it was fine. She never liked my acting anyway
She said if she wanted to date a phony, she would have gone for Oscar or Tony
If she wanted a Golden Globe she wouldn't have settled for a Lemonhead
She said I'm too sweet. That my lips look like strawberry fields and my kisses taste like forever. Yeah, she's a Beatles fan.
I was more of a fan of needles. On a syringe binge, she was my heroine in a red dress
I wanted her address to correspond with where my head rested
I wanted to take the rings from my eyes and wrap them around her finger so she would know she was the reason I couldn’t sleep at night
She said I was her knight in shining armor. Like a page from a fairy tale
Love.
If I had a name for it, maybe I could’ve changed for it
Played the game a different way and kept
her away from it
Her laughter was supposed to be my happily ever after. But it was stifled by heaven's rifleman
Like lightning striking twice and thunder had the audacity to applaud
She said I'm going home. I'm going back to God.
She said that this was the plan all along and if I'm ever longing for her face then I need to face the facts, retrace our steps and reenact for a friend. This isn't the end.
This is just a long-lost friend coming back to visit, isn’t it?
Cold hands gripping getting wet. Blurred vision, can I see her yet?
Timid lemonhead pressed against her wilting smile
She asked what were the first lines I remember writing about her…
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Every road has led me to you
She said that I scoff too often
That I'm often too lost in the moment to know when she's gone
The moment she left. She smelled like a poem. Like loose leaves in the fall
I'm falling from cloud nine, the wind constantly reminding me that she was never mine
And if she was His the whole time, she should have told me. Because now…
Now I have no one to hold me when I drop
No one to scold me when I scoff
No one to write a poem about when I'm lost
If I had a name for it, my mother would tell me
to pray for it. Ain’t that a shame that I am to blame for it?
What’s in a name but a home and a place to grow?
Every passing season gives me a reason too...
Spring showers, summer sun, and winter cold
Hold my name in contempt and place the blame
...she smelled like a poem. Like lost leaves when she fell for me.
Love.
A revised version of an old poem. One of my favorites.