If I stop waiting for it, will it find me?
When it shows up, do I have to not want it?
It's not like I want a bunch of crazy things.
Just a white bed under a window that looks out onto the sea.
Just a room with an easel and a clay wall of clippings.
Just a desk with a story slowly unraveling.
Just a man with a belly who thinks while he eats.
Who turns to me quietly, who sighs when he leaves.
If I stop waiting for it, will it find me?
And when it shows up, do I have to not want it?
It's not like I want things I know I can't have.
Just a loft in a building like a comb in a hive,
Just a rusty fire escape to get me out alive,
Just a dog on a leash when it's nice outside,
Just flowers on the windowsill for the kids walking by
And oil on canvas on brick on the sky.
If I stop waiting for it, will it find me?
When it shows up, do I have to not want it?
It's not like I want this for all the wrong reasons,
Just two more eyes to see the change of the seasons,
Just two more feet to feel all the more freedom,
Just one more heart to help him keep believing
Just one more hand to hold when I'm sleeping
A wood floor, a key, a ring for safekeeping.
I stopped waiting for it, and it found me.
But I guess I wasn't ready.
So I'll try not to flinch and just keep my hands steady
There's yet a few things I still need to learn
like the click of the keys on the chord and the turn
of the foot in the shoe on the trail,
the punch of the clock and the bill in the mail,
the stitch and the chapter and stanza and rhyme,
a steady blood pressure, an eye on the time.
It's not like I want things that shouldn't be mine.
