I never knew the half of me before I sang along with you
we were an intertwined sound spiral that wove out the windows into the street
Sundays are composed of peanut butter m&m's and talking about nothing
listening to all the music that can fill us up
we become a yearning to write, sing, dance, be the greatness that we basked under
awash in technicolor diseases that sound like weather patterns
we're a jungle of medications whose names could be exotic flowers
maybe the tricks we turn are like old coins in new pockets
and we're only spoiled milk in front of starvation
the melancholy melodies that become names of children on the tongues of absent mothers
too befitting to make us comfortable
our relaxation is a bed of nails next to feather mattresses
and we are a composition book in the shaking hands of eternity.