Blood felt in a caress Was the last gift of love I sent you home with. My thoughts gently clinging to the curled ends of your hair. The moon bright as a baby's skin The wind from the sea leaving nothing untouched
I could think of a Springsteen lyric but this isn't the summer and my clothes cling too tightly To this body which I intend only to please you.
I think instead of a friend telling me of a power-out When he lived in a minor Chinese mainland city of seven or 8 million And how all he could see for miles around for an entire week afterwards was smog. And I contrast that With when in the relatively far west of this tiny island We stood laughing in wonder at how the stars hung so closely down on us And how smog is all that fills my head When I try to remember words you use When you speak of the moon.