Burn the way money burns,  
clear into ash our feelings glow.
You could write a book through me through you.
You could be my father when winter is snow.

Me, like some precious stone, I sink,
like the one I grasp around the nape of my neck,
the turquoise one with the ivory glow,
some symbols are lost but this one grows.

You, like some enchanting pond, you pool
hard like truth, like summer out of school,  
colors blend the songs of you,
and speak to me though an invisible ear.

You're bouyant and I float on my elbows,
inching to gaze down the deep end of me.  
But you feel the whiplash of my current
first red hot, the cauldron of morning, then blue.

Your eyes get hard and lidless;
you're a cyclone off the South Pacific of my heart.
I hear you wailing wind into me.
You sound like the bagpipes of my life.

You think I don't know,
the weight of me in the pool of you
but even a fool can see, thats not true,
because the myth of me is found in you.