The night moves between your eyes,
and in the lack of harmony there,
we twitch and say goodbyes,
leaving our hands with a stare.
Our life goes back, before we counted years,
Back to Budapest, lost in each caress,
every sigh burying tears,
longing to care just a little less.
I hold strands of your dress,
up to the simple light to see,
but there is no one left to bless,
the carcass of you and me.
With each movement of the symphony,
you move further away,
dancing to an epiphany,
that is just closer to blasphemy.
Well, the music slows, and it dances,
right around the edges of love,
kissing each of the tenses,
and putting us all in its tight glove.
Back in Budapest you said,
that “love is an imaginary word”,
words that stung in the bruised bed,
but that flew like angry birds.
Well, you laid your head,
and into my ear, you mentioned,
That “love was the fool’s bread”,
but before I caught my breath, you vanished.
I have little of you now,
just this dress between my hands,
and memories of Budapest that come slow,
each string, just a collection of strands.
But I’ll pluck each and every one,
listening for a ring,
with each melody weighing a ton,
wanting graciously for what love will bring.
Each night you look so blessed,
so in control of your strife,
that dresses fall to the side of the bed,
each one loving, and longing for, life.