Must it always be, my dear sweet Jolie, must it always be
,
It had darkened and her song stirred in me, like a ghost from tomorrow´s parties... no words.
I had told you, that poem, can you recall?
Meetings- I had said
Passings- you replied.
What we made our cover-sheets from, darling, that was all the romantic gaze upon a dried land.
You have no future,for you have nothing but future.
You have no past, she said. For you have nothing but past.
Pleased to meet you, at this darkening hour, where flowers grow long.
Do they, though?
Or do they sharpen their teeth, and have gone with it, by ten thirty-six?
Have you made plans?
I have, once. she said.
And are plans plural when -you- is plural too?
She just smiled and turned away.
Where do I stand? Was it the thinnest of ice, or thick moon steps? Who dare take me, where I dare not?
I told her she had the order wrong. I told her she had it backwords. This is how it goes:
Who dare go, where I´ve never gone, after I´ve taken me all the places alone.
All the places alone.
Where do all the places end?
Where do I start where do I stop where do I start where do I stop
Where do you come in, when you do come in.
That is not the question, I insisted. The question is this:
Where do we go, when we do go.
we do go?
Where are you going?
Where do you go?
is we ever inside the eye, are we ever defined by rhymes, will we ever, inclined in lines, are we never, are we in times.
I wondered and wished for plans. When you wish upon a star. I planned a dream and left my head upon the bar.
You talk too much, she said
I was convinced, for a wink, and you lost me, for you went too far
