Ive had to stop answering the phone,
Because your absence taught me how to be alone.
The pictures overhang like collapsing waves,
And i view it only on holidays.

My island is all my own
And i visit with regularity
The water is pristine
And sunlight not unlike that of Montreal or Milan,
Athough ive never been.

Ive stopped going to church
The chapel is far to high
And these days only broken bottles speak.
Not to mention my demanding job,
Short order cook, 40 hours a week.

I miss that Island all my own,
The silent rivulet beneath the sands,
The sunbeam grips this sleepless land.