Roses are red,
carnations, sweet pink.
I don't want you to know
those things that I think.
I think that I like you.
I think you don't know.
I think I won't restate
things I've already shown.
And I think that I want you,
I want your hand around mine.
But we're always running,
no moment, no time.
And it's funny to me
how the magic stays on the air
when your lips are whispering
into my hair.
But I don't think it matters,
your arm's not around me.
I want you to want it,
and I'd hope you agree.
It's just a love poem,
they're my least favourite sort.
There's nothing to say.
No story to report.
Love poem got nowhere,
feels like we're doing the same.
Love poem's dead now,
darling, what a shame..
