But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.

The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.

Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.

Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren

Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.

I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.

Love? Be it man. Be it woman. It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.