A whistle from England sailing 9500 miles away
A lack of comfort and banter, a fight and a bite
A tuck as I reach out over your leaned shoulder

Young hearts who skipped on a rope and tugged
A pull from right to left, a completion for a winner
Locked you in my arms for the longest time ever

Inside my core is the thesaurus and theories you merited
Can you be the priest that initiates a ritualistic Candomblé?
Recite the irmandades as I dally lost at your feet

Darling, I have no pen left to write epistolary and soliloquies
Neither have I got vocals to narrate and articulate speeches
For all we can do is embark and meet in between the shores