These, my love, are not the times you write down:
I've waded too far out,
into too deep waters,
Chasing a vanishing dream.
Don't fret, my love--
you did not fret then,
when my heart was pounding in my heaving breast.
No, I feel it still--
you do not think me so hard as that, do you?
(That's not it.)
I was wading, wading in the heavy current
...and you were my destination, you were...
But the current swept me away,
Body displaced from soul
Carrying out deed displaced from will,
but it's all the same, anyway...
you were never coming back.
Break me down--
into bricks, for the building blocks of a
new destiny,
vested in me, the future, and no "us" present
for the burning of bridges:
I've done that before...
and a Brickmaker is not in the business of
rebuilding burnt bridges.
If I have learned anything,
O, let it be that.
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