Furnace
Ex-Bluelighter
We could pretend a little,
I'd put on some Jeff Buckley, softly.
You'd come in from the cold,
and slip into my bed, warm from the night's sleep.
We'd lay there, next to each other,
telling stories about what our day's plans were.
Then, when you drifted back to sleep,
I'd sneak out, and head to the kitchen.
Where a fresh bunch of flowers waited, along with the components of a lovely breakfast.
Some sunflower seed toast, a bit of jam,
maybe some pancakes and hash browns.
I know you don't like eggs, so I put them back in the fridge.
You'd probably hear me making a racket in the kitchen, and you'd lay there, knowing that I would be bringing breakfast for you.
Even though you already ate,
you would pick through it.
You'd look around my room, see the organized chaos that it was born in.
The books, the music, the writings, the pictures.
But, something's missing. There's something that should be there.
But it still lays in that red bag, in my closet, dormant.
Nothing would make me happier than to see you take that picture frame out, and place it back on my nightstand.
The last thing I see when I turn the light out, and the first thing that gets hit by the sun's morning rays.
Good Morning.
[This message has been edited by Furnace (edited 03 November 2001).]
I'd put on some Jeff Buckley, softly.
You'd come in from the cold,
and slip into my bed, warm from the night's sleep.
We'd lay there, next to each other,
telling stories about what our day's plans were.
Then, when you drifted back to sleep,
I'd sneak out, and head to the kitchen.
Where a fresh bunch of flowers waited, along with the components of a lovely breakfast.
Some sunflower seed toast, a bit of jam,
maybe some pancakes and hash browns.
I know you don't like eggs, so I put them back in the fridge.
You'd probably hear me making a racket in the kitchen, and you'd lay there, knowing that I would be bringing breakfast for you.
Even though you already ate,
you would pick through it.
You'd look around my room, see the organized chaos that it was born in.
The books, the music, the writings, the pictures.
But, something's missing. There's something that should be there.
But it still lays in that red bag, in my closet, dormant.
Nothing would make me happier than to see you take that picture frame out, and place it back on my nightstand.
The last thing I see when I turn the light out, and the first thing that gets hit by the sun's morning rays.
Good Morning.
[This message has been edited by Furnace (edited 03 November 2001).]
