If I could get you out of my head I surely would.
These sleepless nights are worrisome;
those dark walls cave in, relentless,
jagged spires and grotesques
and stained glass malignancies
crumble upon me;
I am not calm.

I see your face in grey clouds and windowpanes.
Somewhere, sometime, I think of you;
do you think of me? I think
not. Not
now not
never ever ever. You are not the first.

But you've taken a seat, made yourself at home,
and I smell you on the air;
I taste you in the food,
fresh and young and lively.
You make me dream
and I hate you for it.

I have no time for dreaming when my heart flutters so.
They are false prophecies;
I do not dream at Delphi
and I have no intention to do so.
Do you dream there?

I imagine you would respond with a particular kind of silence,
the one where the words are there
but do not need to be heard.
Your eyes would speak.
They would look at me with a peculiar pity;
and I would know in that fatal glance
that I would never have a chance
to gaze into them again.

I would rather you were a friend than nothing at all,
a tired acquaintance,
a deadlock of emotions;
I do not want to checkmate them,
just let them know they have another move,
towards me, foretells that particular prophesy.
Ha
Ha

I see your face in grey clouds and windowpanes.
I would rather you were a friend than nothing at all.
I imagine you would respond with a particular kind of silence.
I have no time for dreaming when my heart flutters so.
If I could get you out of my head I surely would.
But you've taken a seat, made yourself at home.