I can’t build a tower for you.
I cannot scrape my name into your sky
with architectured letters,
bold and wide.
That doesn’t mean I don’t feel high
like you must always do.
I can’t say when I’ll be back here.
I cannot write your soul into my life
forever. Perhaps it’s better
that I don’t.
That doesn’t mean I don’t find mine
has lost itself in you.
I can’t invent for you a switch.
I cannot turn you off at our goodbye
and pray you’ll stop without me,
wait for me.
That doesn’t mean that I won’t think
about you from back home.
I can’t believe you don’t have ears.
I cannot believe that you might not hear
I sing you.
That doesn’t mean that I don’t think
you’ve heard it all before.