While we talk over wine
(I am scared to Death
to step in
I figure it will be a vacant lot
A breathable desert or
A shallow green pool)
You take time with quick smiles
To fill the room with short stories
Your eyes roll in and out
Left then right
Your hair goes along with the rhythm of your words
(And I of course have to stop at the sound
I can’t get any further
You won’t let me
Or
I won’t let me)
And there are moments where we laugh
And moments we could
Have found to cry at
(we are such sensitive creatures
and somewhere in the world
people are at war
or eating
sleeping entangled
or killing out of fun)
And it’s a nice story
Mostly it’s a real story
And those are very hard to find today
(And I think your blood
is a much much much
lighter shade of blue,
mine barely moves anymore)
And it’s a story about the past
Which is convenient
Because you can’t talk about yourself in the present
(And I want to laugh the whole time
but I can’t
but I am thinking:
“Why the **** would anyone want to keep a vulture as a pet?
Do they even make birdcages that strong?”)
Your lips move fast
Then slow
Depending on your words
(And I want to touch them
We are good at the touching)
Then the words stop
And we get along just fine.
(And no one else in the world cares
which is the closest we can get to bliss)