nearly inside I was boldly just leaning, looking nothing like thirty-two would you record her somehow, privately floating by the offices I can recall smiling in my old boyish way again, I got plastered at the monastery without her I was sweating my body framed by her palms and now my friends are numbered birds, and they are all You didn’t come, you couldn’t. you were draped and went swimming embarrassing but you let me see on purpose I stood still on the shoreline, I held your book in my hand I know its not the 400 Blows I took a look, Oh Kafka sure aren’t you wide and dead? the dove shows us beams pure and like her birds catch all my questions is she a girl of passions but don’t tell me, I like to guess sometimes drop your curling cowardness, remember books aren’t written yet you can’t have every autumn and the spring you can try suspending your protection into thin empty air, your stripes are shed where is the violet lobby that we need? my muscles are entwined in yours this is a hard affair we’re working the rue for feeling better has left us crying sleepy in our rooms she is towering love up higher the eye can see it but the tower will fall if a wind can blow a feather as it falls don’t steal the stones or your vision will become undone the day the boy trembles in the air scared again, I’m finally understanding what a friend can really be flickering in the wind or burning bright aware of the heat and the light I pressed my face against your chest you acted like you wanted to but I can’t touch you the way I want I can live with two rings on my hand I paled in the afternoon your body liking me, you said It feels good as tears dribbled off your chin I sang a song for children you sang a song for the wind we sang a song only for us I ask you to be true out of mind, I cant hold you didn’t you say always in the end whoever said we both can’t win didn’t make it but lets try again could you hold on to my wavering hand you’re the girl that I hum for and whistle tunes I wrote to you I wrote on the moon, I want you two strangers can imagine staying all night, until morning comes on like the steam from a cup of tea.