Why must we always play these parts?
You cast as the rising sun — too hot to hold, and I — the lonely, jealous moon. We have the dreamers disease, imagining us as an eclipse — and conveniently forgetting our unions fatal flaw.
What love can thrive on the far side of the moon?
You break the dawn of every ordinary day, you break the promise of a dance under moonlight. I whisper every poisoned word I say, but you go ahead and hear it anyway. Nothing becomes of a series of very bad things, yet foolishly — we go on searching for raindrops on butterfly wings — waiting in vain for the summer rain in the middle of winter. We fall apart, we keep drifting way too far.
How long will distant memories — of the sweetest feelings, replay on our minds?
This Christmas is full of un-merry things, cold days unwrapped by silent nights — where caged birds ache and sing. Of all the things that we are — and are not, all that’s left, is the scent of light — and a sense of bitter disappointment. We learn nothing at all from these very bad things, except — how to become very good at them. Let spilled ink rewrite our parts, re-casting both you and I — as the villains of this piece.