She loves the music more than words,
While I'm caught up in sentences,
The nouns and verbs obliquely heard,
The slanting lines of innocence,
Too often at the end of nerves
To have our tongues make any sense,
With nothing more than broken words.
Mistakes are human, I've been told,
Forgiveness from a greater soul.
She says the songs don't sing her name,
And poetry has scant appeal.
She sings. I write. We're not the same.
And yet our kisses make a seal.
With time gone south and winter near,
I wish your legs, your lips were here.