your breath smells like silence

and i'm able to say

your breath smells like silence

when i hold you by the waist;

i see the expression you give me

when i ask you for a taste.

"There's only so many minutes in a day," 

i hear you say

as you pick up your latest book.

there are shadows on your face when you give me the look.

i would love to give you everything that you already took:

maybe some coffee or maybe fine wine?

i'd give you my heart if i knew it was completely mine,

but there's a question and i know it well:

it's not really mine to buy or sell.

there's memories of darkness and episodes of pain;

periods of loneliness and long spells of rain.

i've seen flowers fade and the great trees die,

wondered if i was strong enough to ever cry?

and i can't escape the feeling i'm not good enough:

too soft to matter or too tough?

well, the minutes fade and the weeks become years;

you'll see me wearing costumes full of anxiety and fears;

but i'm older now, wiping away the tears,

and i'm able to say

your breath smells like silence

when i hold you by the waist;

i see the expression you give me

when i ask you for a taste.

"There's only so many minutes in a day," 

i hear you say

as you pick up your latest book.

there are shadows on your face when you give me the look.

i would love to give you everything that you already took:

maybe some coffee or maybe fine wine?

i'd give you my heart if i knew it was completely mine,