He thinks that he is falling
He tells me on a rusty bench
As we sit dripping drenched
In autumn rain
He says he think he's fallen
I'm staring at a dampened nail
Contorted by the hail
And chicken stained
Suspended in the shower
I watch his sentence cower
In the shadows of my mind
My ears are blind
He tells me that he's fallen
My finger tips are turning blue
I see him leaving through
The drizzled pane
He almost says he's falling
I'm gazing at an ailing fly
And I watch it slowly die
With no surprise
He dose not says he's fallen
I'm rigid as a frozen queen
His eager hand's between
My weary thighs
I taste his wet desire
My mouth is stale and drier
As the housefly toils until
It's winter still
There's no more talk of falling
Those dusky words are now taboo
There's no 'I've fallen too"
Left in my eyes