Nursing Old Wounds Are you ready for the snow to fall? There must be more to love than this, the long-term torture, short-term bliss But am I ready for the snow to fall? And now that we are long apart, and still we nurse our broken hearts, our conversations stilted, stark- (the scars of love have left their mark- [or have we ever loved at all?]) Are we ready for the snow to fall? Ticking To drown in laughter, break yesterday's bars. I am the cage, the the ribcage of vague resemblance; I am the cage, you swallowed the key. Tumbling along the carstrewn miles- like winding a clock, you kiss me. I am ticking. Always there is wine. Your drunken laughter always breaks the sense of remembrance with passion. Drink more; the journey is long. The bruises taint my heart like a pendulous grape subtly caged behind your lips. Like winding a clock, you kiss me. Drowning in wine, you stumble minutely on yesterday's laughter in seedy bars. I am ticking; you've lost count of the memories. I was free when the spaces were empty, when the key was in the lock, when the roads were dry. Like winding a clock, you kiss me. I Will When the sunset dilutes itself in the soothing earth of your eyes and the green falls to loam. When the dew like tiny constellations glistens in silken webs and sleeping spiders. When the last sorrows are forgotten among the black foliage of nameless melancholy- gray that feels pink. I will, but don't ask me until the time comes. I'll remember when fatigue quakes in the muscles of your mistakes of memory; don't rush the moonrise, don't question my will, it happens always when I will the wrong time right, and the passion fades from the planet's sight. Isolation Thirst Alone in the far corner of a world of dreams I listen to the plaintive whisper of sweet memories with wings clipped with time fluttering a sedate, soothing rythm through this cool flesh sliding so namelessly familiar over this landscape of loose translation. She kisses me, slowly forces herself through me; my trembling assembles a tacit myth: this is of significance. We move in lasting time, resisting a sense of desperate secrecy. Then, somewhere far below us, the strangers, the rest of them, begin to stir. I need not ask she stay until I forget. And we are laughing-- the day has come too soon And we are sobbing. This is a stranger's clutch; so little time to learn so much-- as if no other night could bring such a futile, fleeting touch. And because she sighs, and because she sings as she becomes my pain-- I must steal the night again.