Our Love Never Wasn’t

I haven’t seen you in a long time, to be frank I’m enjoying the silence.

I can’t commit to the truth it lies, cause it feels kind of like we are dying.

If I made you blue, I never wanted to.

It’s just love and our love never wasn’t.

There’s disappointment in her eyes, as he speaks she echos with silence.

Neither one is good at goodbyes still they always seem to be trying.

I will remember you, if you remember too.

It’s just love and our love never wasn’t, it’s just love and our love never wasn’t.

There’s a melody, in a harmony.

It’s just love and our love never wasn’t.

He sang to her a lullaby, she did all she could to stop crying.

They fell asleep in the moonlight, just two heartstrings played on violin.

Some day you’ll see, in a memory.

It’s just love and our love never wasn’t.

Santa Monica

I guess we drank wine, I don’t recall but a Polaroid tells me we did.

I lost track of time, all around me the world continued to spin.

Not like you were mine, I just talked to you when you came around.

I guess it was kind, of like two kids on a merry-go-round.

You wrote me a letter, from Santa Monica in June.

You said you felt better, and that you thought I’d like it too.

Come in December, and we could write poems in the park.

Then there was that blizzard, that left New York alone in the dark.

I was alone in the dark.

I guess that it’s time, to burn these memories you left behind.

I never did find, a more honest friend or a beautiful mind.

I hope that you found, the world that you set out to see.

And know that I’ll be, singing this from across the sea.

A Song Once Sung To An Infant Under The Gun.

Today the time ran out

just as it had begun—

Hot water fills the tub

you swore you’d never become—

It’s warm and shallow now

cut servings for only one—

The echo down the hall, well

that’s just yesterdays love—

Now it’s all become a song once sung

to an infant under the gun.

Today the moon refused

to trade place with the sun—

Sidewalks full of people

but still you know only one—

It’s an impossible force

that drags you from yourself—

Now it’s all become a song once sung

to an infant under the gun.

I try, you know I do, to balance

fault lines and faith, the surgeons

steel blade, it draws a bridge between both—

It’s a symphony of simple things

that will seem eclipsed by the sun—

Cause it’s all become a song once sung

to an infant under the gun.

California, 2020