Our words were strong, strong enough
to imitate the click clack of heels
with our tongue, but our song
never really had the slightest
stint of staccato, and I wonder why.
I wonder why we left ourselves
dying in a corner, like old sweaters
drooping from chairs, shoulder
against shoulder, warm,
but ever so lonely.
We could've moved together, falling
softly into the thousand arms
of a carpet, and rising again
with dust, old letters,
and the morning.
We'd belong to the newborn sun,
the wind blowing us to and fro:
perfumed laundry imitating
the passing of time...
But today, there's only a landscape
in our hearts, where winter
has barely passed.
