Baby

Baby, I can see you through our window, (Baby, I can see you through my window)
while you pour a glass of vino (while you feel the disappointment)
and light up a cigarette (and swallow up, whole, your pride).

Baby, could you tell me what's hurting? (Baby, would you tell why you are coming)
Why you drink in this mourning morning? (Why you tombstone is not important?)
Was it me or was it him? (Was it you? Was it the rain?)

A sardonic vision of your future, (A promising vision of your next one)
made me love you even more. (made me hate you even more more)
You didn't know you were fucked up (I didn't know I was fucked up)
But I knew it all along. (But we knew it all)

Now you see the butterflies (Can you see now? Your heart flies.)
and finally believe in them. (He, finally, believes in it.)

Would you believe in human kind?
It'll put an end to your tears.

Cold Cry (from the draft box II)

"I think and think and think, I‘ve thought myself out of happiness one million times, but never once into it."
— Jonathan Safran Foer

The blizzard freezes your scarf, bonnet and heart.
Your thighs burn, your mind is numbed; it'll last.

Thinking means setting your neck and back on fire,
thinking aggravates that feeling in your gut, dire.

You put your glasses on hoping you'll see better.
Short-lived tears die in the corner of your mouth.

Tap your foot impatiently, words are dead in your throat.
Get the courage to write what you feel; tell her.

Tell her that your silence is out of fear, not disrespect.
Mention to her that it's cold outside; that it's cold inside.

You cry and swallow your pain. You say that it'll be okay.
You know that it'll be. But it still hurts, it still does.

You cry and you drain. You know that you love her.
You cry and you drain. You cry and swallow your pain.