I wrote on your back words of a bygone era,
Back when we were a a collusion in the making
Not souls, not cells, not matter
Yet by then, Nabokov had already met Véra
And to her, he wrote about a strange joy
Ane what he knew right when he met her:
He only ever existed within her eyes,
He was only ever seen through their letters
I’m not sure you hear the same notes,
And I want to be a lover, not a beggar
I want hear the songs of your thoughts
On a loop, growing louder, forever
Oct 19, 2020
Oct 19, 2020 at 10:38 PM UTC
I wrote on your back words of a bygone era,
Back when we were a a collusion in the making
Not souls, not cells, not matter
Yet by then, Nabokov had already met Véra
And to her, he wrote about a strange joy
Ane what he knew right when he met her:
He only ever existed within her eyes,
He was only ever seen through their letters
I’m not sure you hear the same notes,
And I want to be a lover, not a beggar
I want hear the songs of your thoughts
On a loop, growing louder, forever
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