I see them dancing on the roof

and no-one seems to care.

Fire weaves its way

feeding on 99 cent novels

making pine trees cry

and I can still trace your love

in every crack on my knuckle.

I wish you would stop

because it bleeds into my ink.

Stars breathe,

according to you.

Worst of all

they remember.

Me, myself, and I

You, yourself, and still I

I, recorded with you in starlight

when all I wanted was a dance

until I started setting fires

and seeing things in you

that simply weren’t there.

 

Michael Adams