She lied to me about the one I loved the most. As kindly as she was to me, she only loved a ghost.
Having lost their mothers, Paul and John were sad when writing what we think is a happy song. Joy is when love is found to be the only thing which fixes sorrow and wrong. "She Loves You" sweetens the girls who cry in pain. The logic of its story makes the joy of lovers plain. The narrator: "I saw her yesterday," and he tells the truth of what she said--- otherwise lies destroy love.
She loves you! She loves you! But she lied to me about the one I loved the most. This is what she did to me. Nicely hid secrets. Poorest poetry! She drifted sweetly into enmity. "She loves you" is the secret which makes a secret die. A word is nothing without the word. Poetry is most itself when it cries its own cry. The message is the message in the message. Therefore love songs cannot die.
I did not know people lied to me. They lied for love. They saw love was what I was. For them, love could not be what I was. I was extraordinary. I loved because of what poetry does.
I was curious about unseen incidents. I caught her lying. I was curious how things were going to end. She passed on to me a sorrow of truth to contemplate alone. The distant sun died on living things which shone. Polite, I still call her my friend.
I will sleep my way to death. I listen to love, lying next to what the silence says. Unfriendly life is a lullaby. We see what we need to see. We are protected in the breaking of the day. Sorrow is becoming the landscape's wisdom. My sleep is plainly meant for immortality, wise and bitter, love's infinite decay, poetry stretched out for its nightly sleep, a sighing length protected from the details of lies. A chilly blue sighing into a misty day.
