Sensitive

It all began to move in great slow motion.
Nothing that she did or said would make it fly again.
The tempo lost its will to beat so very long ago.
Southern fried, the heat began to build itself inside.
No matter where she went, he found her there.
Soul crying out so deep inside of her.
Sensitive, they said of her, yet one more time again.

Once upon a time, he loved that very quality.
Back when love was what he'd meant to be.
How was it that she knew of all his anger and
the sorrow flowing through his every move?
Denial was a habit he embraced. The grace
of love was pushed aside for the grossness
of mere space.

He blamed her then, within the make-believe.
Blamed her for the pain that he'd induced.
Blamed her for the sorrow that he held so very dear.
Blamed her that he'd never cried the tears he held inside.
"But it was only make-believe!" he'd say.
The dream world where they used to love so well
and so complete.

And then it all began to move in great slow motion.
Nothing that he did or said would make it fly again.
The tempo lost its will to beat so very long ago.
Southern fried, the heat began to build itself inside.
No matter where he went, it found him there.
Soul crying out so deep inside of him.
Sensitive, they said of him, yet one more time again...

? Michaelette ?

10/05/2002
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