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mood |
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obtuse. |
] |
| [ |
music |
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Nine Black Alps |
] |
To My Candide
I am a mess, a dilapidated place to live, but I am where you seem to find yourself. In me there is a hiding hole for advice, your jacket, your smokes. I am the tree you sleep in when you run away from home. I am forever tied to your happy existence, your sweet, young face. Your name is carved into my side. My Candide, you know nothing of love. You sit beneath my branches and I keep the sun off of your forehead. I keep you dry when it storms. You huddle against my trunk and sigh, talk to me of the worries you have. No matter what cautious word I throw to you, the wind catches it before your ears. I know deep down you will make your own mistakes, fall from another tree somewhere far away. I know how you'll come to me with scraped knees and beg for my hand, pull on my leaves, tug on my twigs. And no matter how I long to hug you, touch you, hold you like a real woman, I am immobile. Rooted, deep and low in the earth. I am your faithful companion, your confidant, your word. But I do not have soft hands, big damp eyes, warm pink skin, long, fresh smelling hair. I cannot be your love. As much as I want to be your love, I cannot be your love.
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sick
pissed off
hopeful
