Is not as liberating as travelling thirteen whimsical days
From Brindisi to Milan with nothing but twenty three
American dollars to an ever changing name
Nor is it more dream-like than drifting along the Kashmir Valley
Where the sight of a cold AK-47 is as rare
As the nitrogen in the air that you and I breathe.
And to be the one laid here beside you in the pale moonlight
Is no great compliment either (nor is it illuminating in the slightest).
Your cruel criticisms fall on me like hollow conversation;
Like those gentle petals that fall on your windowsill.
Those are my flooding tears failing in the rain
Perhaps my time would be better spent reading
A novel in a language entirely foreign to me
Than pretending to sleep here beside you.
It has always fascinated me
How the fields of your hair part in three different ways
And shine red under the lights of these eyes, and these eyes alone
And how we’re always alone (even when we’re in company).
Tomorrow I will read a novel
In a language entirely foreign to me
There will be silence on my radio
And every word will remind me of you.
