Sometimes I slip my hand over my breast, and hold it in place.
I look up to the sky and close my eyes and wait for the blood to flow in… and perhaps, perhaps, change my ways.
The ways I can hear music flow into my ears, and my skin, and then dream of all the fears.
I can wait
This I know
But for one, two, three, six years
Then I go.
My ocean love, I love the way your uncaring hands have lived too much.
Like your fingers over strings, I have to slip away from the comfort of our love crutch.
So sometimes I slip my cold hand over my breast, and once again begin to wait
That I will always believe
Is meant to be