You don't shed any answers
nor light over my garden,
and there is no fighter
who rests in you.
There is no August moon,
nor April rain
that hadn't slept
in you before.

You are tiny
like a shooting star
like the universe
just about to bang.
You fly like laughter,
like the dandelion.
If I lie to you
you do it better.

Now tell me what will they offer you
lost evenings, your blood on my skin,
the weary house, the blanket on the sofa,
the tv on, the urge to cry.
Now tell me what will they give you,
peace in your belly, the bottom of the sea,
weary seagulls, my shadow on the sofa,
the ember, the urge to kill.

You are the broken glass,
the sea in which I venture,
the whispering wind,
the unmade bed,
acid in my eyes,
the coffe in my morning,
the hand on the sex,
the battle sounds.

You don't shed any answers
nor light over my garden,
and there is no fighter
who rests in you.
There is no August moon,
nor April rain
that hadn't slept
in you before.