Unterwegs
Unterwegs
adverb: en route, on the way, away, underway
Here's a story: She was Russian (and they said she was easy) who played the piano beautiful and didn't sway back and forth as she did it but sat straight upright like a classicist. The Masked Man perched anxiously alongside, briskly playing little notes in the betweens where idler hands don't linger. Her more ardent arpeggios ringing through the vacant edges of the night as she whispered "you taste like your brother."
"I miss the sound of your voice"
- Matt-Nathanson -
I am finally fertile soil after years of being buried by that shit And I am stalled no more but growing with this vine-- You are, feeding off ofevery my second thoughts
This is
definitely
not the time
to give you second thoughts
I know
what you
must think of me
and I've
given up
trying to shake the feeling
away
with the
recurring dream that I gave it all I had.
I gave
it all
I had but I didn't give it all to you
You burned
through me
I worry that I've learned it too late
your star
now burns
aimlessly but I was a stowaway
on a ship that refused to go to port
and now
we've both
settled cleverly, with sunlight,
the seed
of you
grows within this new soil I am rooted to
Don't call
me though
I know you know how and you want to.
I want
you to
call me but it'd only confuse the air.
We can't
forget
either of us those steps we've made
the dance
the words
are stretched behind us and I wanted to say
Yes I
long for
you at night alone when the moon is bright
like the
boy I
was on the line far away oh so far away
someday
maybe
We could turn that key again
until...
til then
we must put that key away
Let it
sit there
And then someday as I'm leaving the plane
there you'll
see me
and somehow the way'll be clear
just like
just like
just like
nothing has changed.
Til then
til then
I must be going away
I am
under-
Yes until then I'm underway.
adverb: en route, on the way, away, underway
Here's a story: She was Russian (and they said she was easy) who played the piano beautiful and didn't sway back and forth as she did it but sat straight upright like a classicist. The Masked Man perched anxiously alongside, briskly playing little notes in the betweens where idler hands don't linger. Her more ardent arpeggios ringing through the vacant edges of the night as she whispered "you taste like your brother."
"I miss the sound of your voice"
- Matt-Nathanson -
I am finally fertile soil after years of being buried by that shit And I am stalled no more but growing with this vine-- You are, feeding off of
Labels: fragile and sad, fragments, her name was Nataliya, know they enemy, only now that she's lost, see what's sown, someone else's life