The last letter you sent to me
simply read, "Z"
as if you wanted me to see
it was too hard
for you to
complete my name,
even after everything,
still, you can't even
press it with a Bic
into some Hammermill

So, what can't they see?

The last letter you sent to me
read like a eulogy
for the woman you were
The praise was put on pretty thick
By your description
anyone else would see
me as biohazard, medical waste,
another toxic taste,
highly addictive, overwhelming,
an overall detriment
to your mental health

So, what can't they see?
Lover from another over moment,
what can't they see?

Doesn't matter how I conduct myself,
certain ears listen to certain mouths
regardless of the content, or the timing
There's been a Jean-Claude in pink
since the beginning, sitting in the trees
taking notes, waiting for the moment
I reveal something petty and honest
in a rare moment of our honesty

Feel free to rake up my mistakes
If you want to do us both, anata,
we'll need a bigger ******* rake

So, what can't they see?
Lover from another over moment,
what can't they see?