I am sick - sick of love, sick of her and you, sick in the throat, sick cause I ain't seeen you.
One a many puff of smoke rising to the white ceiling, while I hear she is the sun and moon and stars.
I shall count the hours cause there is nothing else to do, you understand.
There is no bike, no rant, just me wishing to hear a bird passs by.
I write and pretend to be I am where I am.
Whisper her name to the crickets and they will sing you back a lullaby.
The world is yours and you are hers alright.
Cursing the rain which drove you mad on a Sunday night.