Through The Eyes of a Stranger
I can't think.
and I don't want to.
It hurts too much to open unopened doors in my mind,
walk backwards down that same old path and turn right instead of left,
try speaking my heart when I held it back,
try lifting the curtain, revealing my true self at the very beginning,
or maybe doing nothing at all, waiting for you to approach me instead.
What if I did nothing or if I did more?
Would I be in this tangled mess of my desires?
Drowning deep in a shallow river on a boat I built myself?
I glance at the old footprints in the sand, permanently in the sand behind me
and wonder if I followed them, would they lead me back to you?
Not back to the projection of fake perfection that stands in front of me now,
but back to that grinning artist of mine, up late every night riding a motercycle.
Take me back to when we sat by the trickling brook,
our faces reflecting in it's sunny waters,
back to the lazy, suburban days when we'd lounge in the living room
and talk about life, like we knew everything it held for us.
Back to that cobblestone pathway of yours where we held eachother close
beneath the whimpering willow that hid us well out of sight from the neighbours.
But I cannot retrace my steps.
I am here right now.
Under the sunset with a stranger who looks exactly like you.
Where have you gone?
What is this lifeless walking dead and what has she done with you?
Are you drowning deep inside her where it's too dark to see?
If I could hear you, would you speak my name? Call to me for help?
But I can see through the eyes of a stranger, those lifeless, haunting eyes,
possessed by some anchient evil spirit, that you are not coming back.
I reach my hand out and stroke your shoulder,
you cringe at the touch of my hand,
and so I say the words, "I love you."
and walk off into the distance.
and I don't want to.
It hurts too much to open unopened doors in my mind,
walk backwards down that same old path and turn right instead of left,
try speaking my heart when I held it back,
try lifting the curtain, revealing my true self at the very beginning,
or maybe doing nothing at all, waiting for you to approach me instead.
What if I did nothing or if I did more?
Would I be in this tangled mess of my desires?
Drowning deep in a shallow river on a boat I built myself?
I glance at the old footprints in the sand, permanently in the sand behind me
and wonder if I followed them, would they lead me back to you?
Not back to the projection of fake perfection that stands in front of me now,
but back to that grinning artist of mine, up late every night riding a motercycle.
Take me back to when we sat by the trickling brook,
our faces reflecting in it's sunny waters,
back to the lazy, suburban days when we'd lounge in the living room
and talk about life, like we knew everything it held for us.
Back to that cobblestone pathway of yours where we held eachother close
beneath the whimpering willow that hid us well out of sight from the neighbours.
But I cannot retrace my steps.
I am here right now.
Under the sunset with a stranger who looks exactly like you.
Where have you gone?
What is this lifeless walking dead and what has she done with you?
Are you drowning deep inside her where it's too dark to see?
If I could hear you, would you speak my name? Call to me for help?
But I can see through the eyes of a stranger, those lifeless, haunting eyes,
possessed by some anchient evil spirit, that you are not coming back.
I reach my hand out and stroke your shoulder,
you cringe at the touch of my hand,
and so I say the words, "I love you."
and walk off into the distance.