In the mornings, through the blinds
there’s only hope of hard rains
and I know I’ll soak
and I know I’ll dry
but I won’t have to prove it to you.
Through the days, when I’m fearless
I think maybe there might
be a song, be an echo
a sound I could mimic
that wouldn’t be coming from you.
But in the nights of blue envy
I know I’m not that lucky,
that my wash cycles,
that my echolocation,
all my posh elocution
won’t save me from conjuring you.