Hot breath. Rough skin. Warm laughs and smiling. The lovliest words. Whispered and meant. You like all these things.
But, though you like all these things, you love a stone. You love a stone. Because it's smooth and it's cold. And you'd love most to be told that it's all your own.
You love white veins. You love hard grey. The heaviest weight. The clumsiest shape. The earthiest smell. The hollowest tone. You love a stone.
And I'm found too fast. Called too fond of flames. And then I'm phoning my friends. And then I'm shouldering the blame. While you're picking pebbles out of the drain miles ago. You're out singing songs and I'm down shouting names at the flickerless screen. Going insane. Am I losing my cool? Overstating my case? Well, baby what can I say?
You know I never claimed that I was a stone.
And you love a stone. You love white veins. You love hard grey. The heaviest weight. The clumsiest shape. The earthiest smell. The hollowest tone. You love a stone.
You love a stone. Because it's dark and it's old. And if it could start being alive, you'd stop living alone. And I think I believe that, if stones could dream, they'd dream of being laid side-by-side, piece-by-piece, and turned into a castle for some towering queen they're unable to know.
And when that queen's daughter came of age, I think she'd be lovely and stubborn and brave, and suitors would journey from kingdoms away just to make themselves known.
And I think that I know the bitter dismay of a lover who brought fresh brouquets every day. When she turned him away to remember some knave who once gave just one rose. One day. Years ago.