Tonight, it strikes me how alive you are.
Your voice, a verdigris vase of clear
water, soaking roses.
A sound aware of itself,
blooming into the stuffy air
made of our
girlhood.
You sing to a room full of us.
How is it that one man can be
known by so many?
And yet here we are:
novel,
nameless,
giving our open hearts
like rosebuds.
Your voice, a verdigris vase of clear
water, soaking roses.
A sound aware of itself,
blooming into the stuffy air
made of our
girlhood.
You sing to a room full of us.
How is it that one man can be
known by so many?
And yet here we are:
novel,
nameless,
giving our open hearts
like rosebuds.
