Every single sunny day,
There's a magic place,
A brown bench by the baseball fields.

Such a basic grace,
When the sun shines down,
You and I walk the way.

Right on down to our favorite seat,
Whether its summer, whether its spring,
I can hold you all the same.

We were flowers, twisted ‘round each other in red thread
speaking soft words under soft rains – hard park benches
pretending we didn’t love what was in the other’s head.
We were flowers, one flower, ‘round and ‘round in red
lipstick that stained and teethmarks from words left unsaid
We were pacing old trodden paths digging old sodden trenches
We were flowers, cut at the stem bleeding love bleeding red
Speaking cold words in floods, sitting on lonely park benches.

My flights come and go,
But the bench records my slouch
As I’ve already grown wings.