Who might use his breath to warm your shivery fingers?
Who might use the dews of his tears in the discovery of your red lips?
Who's your portable space heater while you're on the run?

Sunday's sand was Saturday's choatic fight.
But it was just an excuse to flight.
Leave, but don't leave me.
You've got a gig in the sky.
Pick a color you want to fly.

March 21, 2002, PARC.