i can remember days spent,
grey, inside that old september house
with wooden floors and
whitewashed doors and a deck,
the forecastle of the ship
that was our house that
sailed towards the mountains.
we watched the town obscure the view
as years passed by before us
and the light within the house grew
greyer with each passing day.
you said you'd found your home,
forever, but there came a day
we left, and brought all of our
things in boxes and we never
went back again.
so, what is it you love?
is it the days behind the door
as sharks swam out in the beyond?
is it watching, and listening, and
looking for something,
anything that's wrong?
it cannot be the way i lie
or leave for months unending
i'm a goose, a fling, a season
i can't stay around forever.
so tell me this great formula,
and i will see it through
i hate the thought that makes me cringe
of losing you.