I pour over rock, 
and I fall into you,
and I sleep with the sound,
I can sleep here so sound.
The ground is a mantle,
and my hands are a cup,
and they fill up with blood,
and I empty it up.

And there is nothing I can do,
so I don't.

I know a look is a letter,
I know there is weather in your room.
Can you read me?
Can you read to me, about you?
I need to leave some hours to nothing,
I am clouds in the night,
like a prism in the dark.

There is nothing we can do,
so we don't.

I know that growth is a narrative,
I'm far too heady for a bloom.
Dead head everything,
cut back to root.
Well I need to feel the sun on my skin,
and my hands in the light,
and your kisses in the dark.

There is nothing we can do,
so we don’t.