There’s no law against hoping,
that all but the one we’re turning onto,
all roads would just disappear
into the ice rink of the rearview mirror,
so I have nowhere to go but further into you, dear,
until I pass all the way through,
as the sun through glass,
as your hair through my fingers,
as a memory through the past.
There’s no law against hoping.
Hope is the oldest trick in the book.
On either side of love, it is the parenthesis.
There is no venom in the serpent’s kiss,
so I travel farther into his soft abyss
until I pass all the way through,
as the sun through glass,
as your hair through my fingers,
as a memory through the past.
Until I pass all the way through,
as the sun through glass,
as your hair through my fingers,
as a memory through the past.
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