Textures #54


where she goes is always a mystery

postcards and portraits of missed christmas trees

one day she’ll tell you why

she left that poem on your window sill

’cause it’s not easy to hold

a love that rushed in so unexpectedly

she wrapped it around her waist

like silk oh so carefully

and wandered the empty streets

looking for you, or so she said to me

perhaps there’s a room

in a house somewhere up a hill

where she plays the piano

or the violin


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