It's the smell of memory.
It's you in my dreams,
stringing together old fragments,
old noise
and old pointlessness enjoyment.
I can't promise I won't call,
I can't wish enough that
you'd send me some words
or a condescension worth hearing.
You'd package a wish,
you'd float a dream to me if
only you could see me crying.
Hold the phone, please.
Seek what you haven't seen,
look with your heart.
But now you're the queen of passion,
you're building your islands of
isolation...