darlin', I have moments
where your optimism
makes me want to
swear to you
that your storybook ending
is out there, but I must confess
that I find no magic in bohemians,
and I can capture no rapture
from lyrics that flow like Mercury
because all I have left to be certain about
are steely-grey-brown eyes intertwined
that don't know what to say
in response to hope
that rocks a body
like cliched guitar chords
but I promise waiting
for peace pulled through
a broken sigh exhaled outwards
the same way carcinogens
surrounded our auras
during smoke breaks
is all we can do
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