The old songs dreamed of love
but now we’re much too smart.
We analyze the speeches
and tear the songs apart.
Toss sentimentality away:
we’ve been cheated.
We take new paths. We attempt to prove
we are more sophisticated than love.
The piano only wants to kiss.
The guitarist laughed, when I asked for his theory.
“I play until my hands are weary.”
There’s nothing more you can do about this.
What other people want to do
has nothing to do with you.
After my walk, hearing a shadow, and amazed,
I forgot the music.
On you I gazed.