I run into you on lit-up Lovelace lane
On April seventh, waiting for the train
I take you to a restaurant for a glass of champagne
And as I drunkenly talk to you
Words come out, not from the brain, no, no
Not from the brain, not from the sane.

“Oh, the odds of seeing you here;
The coincidence that might appear
to be nothing more than god’s plans
or a coincidence made to rest in his hands

Angel,
I have seen the way
your eyes dulled upon their betray
Angel,
look at me, pure and divine
look at me,
like you’re a heart wrapped in vine
leaves and leaf by leaf I peel
and peak beneath your teal
dress and distress is an understatement
to myself as I stumble on pavement
And god-like would be more like an insult
to the way your laugh sounds; like a cult
of beauty
and feminism
and that lonely wind of sadness
oh God, bless your laugh, God bless

Talk to me,
these echoes are not enough
to satisfy my ears, I honestly can’t bluff
about the way I am desperately in need to hear
you talk, the words leave the lips, the words sincere
the words trail down the hips…
the words dissolve into clips…
the words fall like, snow
into my ears…
And…
I forgot how to think…
But you appear in the blink
of the eye, the sound of a cry
that brings me closer to heaven
and I am silent, I am the raven
I am deaf
to everything but you,
I am deaf

Between you and I
I struggle with rhymes
and I’ve never really loved how my words
were with a twist of the mind, paradoxically absurd
You leave me hanging on the
tip of your tongue
and crushed inside
the muscles of your lungs
please take me out;
there are still a few verses I haven’t
sung.”
                                                  ­       *p.t.