He is the morning bird outside, the wind, the cake you eat... and more strange, so much more strange that he is she, the mimic in the glass at all hours.
The 'do not disturb' is hung, the limbs are flung and a line is quickly drawn, Anette, some chocolate flies and silver disks. Socks and ear-rings, long, long gone. The music it is hers, the cup, the chair, the car in mind.
He is that too, each thing, and place, and nook and crack- he is now the sofa at her back... and intrest peeling off the walls, no vampire crap but cats in nap.
She is the steady smile that comes, from women who, will not be mums, and France, guitar and civil rights.
And hush, for he is this not more, nor a voice at the door. And she is thus and all, that is.
I really enjoyed this poem and it seemed to fit what I was working on (from my perspective). No offense will be taken if you wish me to stop using your words. I don't intend on sharing the song outside of with you.
Here is a link to it: http://youtu.be/Jo0p0-okKhg