my lover came to me in a form of a musician.
he sang melodies and loved being on stage
but he didn’t love me.

my lover came to me in a form of a musician.
it was no surprise that he turned me into history blues.

i can see your silhouette against the lone silver frame of
the island moon. even your veins are paper mache, and there’s an
ache in my heart like you left your fingerprints all over my chest and
kept me from breathing properly. it’s fun to watch: you’re a scraped kneecap.
a kid who won’t take off his training wheels, spring in the desert.

you can see: everything is special in my eyes only if it’s
in relation to you. if i am the moon then you are the stars, lending me your sheen.