Progressive, she says about the music
The red wine has made her
Put on the stereo,

And I'm glad I have no neighbours, but
At the same time I wouldn't care
If I did; the way her

Hair smells when she headbangs
Is worth more than summer lilac
And lakeside pine in air. Or silence.

I have surrendered to you day after
Day, tonight I put my sword to the ground
And kick dirt upon it

So it will not awaken. I am without
Arms, touching your face with
My unreachabilities.

Rhythm is the only God we have.
Tone is our Saviour, Melody the Holiest
Of Ghosts . *How can we live

Like this? I ask, then shut my mouth
And do as she says: Just listen to
How it climbs; moves; is.

I have no more fight in me. So I
Won't. I'll just let her decide the volume
And music, and when I need it, Dream

Theatre gives in to Enya, and all my
Needs for rest finally make sense as I
Try not to close my eyes and leave my

Head somewhere between her shoulder
And chest, and ask anything that might
Listen not to, for the sake of ****,

Take me to anywhere that isn't where
She decides that we're listening to music
That is anything but us.