Or will my heart have stopped too soon,
pressed firmly against my fingertips.
I think from now on we just won't have lips.
And the flowers won't have petals,
their stems made out of precious metals.
I think from now on you won't have feet,
and instead I'll spit into the street.
I'd spit right now just to hear you protest,
but I know too well we won't be pressed
for time, clothes, who knows.
From now on I just won't have a nose.
My thoughts may never be heard,
not by the feather, not by the bird.
I spent the night tickling you on the floor.
But your flag isn't mine to wave, anymore.
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