a cardigan made of nettles
your love was a driving force
it was a blind thing that kept my eye
kept my stride perfect and wide course
and my heart awash with stringent pride
but lately as the pace endures
I can see the distance is a toil
your spirit is lowering and sore
and have simmered from a boil
the way we look at each other and talk
is a pale imitation of the sparkle we did
and I can't figure out the cause of it
I only wish I did so to fix it
we used to wrap each other so tightly in love
now we strangle ourselves in each embrace
I wish we were the ones that we met
but those seem to be gone without a trace
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