Lonely girl, I know you wear songs on your lips
but when you smoke those cigarettes,
you sound as if you are in a cloud of  fog –

it makes me think, makes me wonder.
Could we live in one of those bouncy airplanes?
So natural, lonely girl, you would fit perfect
floating and crying every drop of rain
onto the heads of people who won’t talk to you.  

I would drown them with mine, too –
unaccompanied in our river, not able to sing
while you’re ever in the company of my shadow.