He's got me singing love songs, and I never
realized how foreign they became until
I was holding a brush in my hand, half-naked screaming
at the top of my lungs that maybe love is an open door;
an open door without an obstacle screen, and faulty locks.

And when the song ended on a high note, I realized
that I was so used to wallowing in the bass chords
of another sad tune to realize that this door was wide open -
past all the piano acoustics and vocal cracks between sniffles;
past the stressed fermatas and slow tearjerkers while I screamed

Mayday, please do not rain on my Parade again.

And in the first time in a long time, the sun is shining
and he looks at me everyday like you've only done once
or twice. And maybe, just maybe, I'm willing to break
the doorknobs you once taught me how to put together
just to keep this door slightly ajar a little while longer.

gd