I may as well shut my eyes to the sun,
Stick my head beneath the pillows
Let Melancholia and Lethargia
Continue their marathon run
When at five, out from my cube
In my gray flannel suit
I creep through the grate of streets
I should melt beneath the crush of feet
Ground to dust & blown discrete
Lost in traffic, none will know
Never daring to carry a note
Nor the breeze to deliver
A memory of your scent
There'd be no reason, after all
I work the scene, countless hours inside
There's no clue left to categorize
Or label for a box of evidence
When what's missing is without
transferable valoir
What's missing
is the press of your lips
& the warmth of your breath
It is you that's missing
in the equation of us
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