A terrible man, a desperate
attempt to make amends
wrote a song for a girl or
could not but just imagined,
about something he read
once, about static and
distance, but he just simply
could not without feeling
terribly vain and incredibly
distant, about recent
encounters, about love and
affliction, ziplocks and plastic
containers, the gentleness
of her kisses,
about the possible cancer
that has manifested in
the mirror far right of his
forehead, about a world that
could never be kind, never
be kind, never be kind, never
be kind, about the taste of
tree sap [something recently
tasted], about growing old,
about his fear of the cold and
the darkness at age 27 and
how foolish does that make
him, bundled up in the cold,
afraid of the dark at age 27,
a song for a girl, he knew
he'd never quite finish, in the
drunk breath of Autumn, in
all its glory and strangeness,
we can hide, we can hide,
we can hide, we can hide,
you are mine, you are mine,
you are mine, you are mine.