Every evening the television on And your hands they sit, the Cold of you to my right And I ask, do we have money in the bank?
It is of A place of longing the Reason we head east Alone, swimming naked in the river
And we dry off, sitting Sliding blue jeans on Torn, Watching ants on hot concrete.
Your anger leaves you shaking Trying to steady, we hold hands And It all starts to feel empty
As we mingle our fingers together/separate and I Believe we both know
That whatever it Was won’t mean Much of anything
Notes
After “Situation: Relation” by Rainer Maria.