Lying in bed I sing slow songs br into the microphone of your ear br Knowing you're too busy filing to br really listen br You remember words I have long br forgotten br I'll remember how you reached br through seamless curtains br To stroke my face absently, using br me as a worry-stone while thinking br I drag my nails along your naked br side, looking for wounds br Wanting to pour my blood into them br I speak at your impatient ear br while your eyes seek spaces near mine br While you're hearing my voice you cannot br feel my hand on your breast br This is why you read only br the words in my poemsbr br D A Phinneybr br