The floor’s stricken with scuff marks,
graven as a cirrus sky.
Not a sound comes to me.
I miss the thunder.
I’m waiting for you,
or the words for you.
I miss the lightening.
The floor’s stricken with scuff marks,
graven as a cirrus sky.
Not a sound comes to me.
I miss the thunder.
I’m waiting for you,
or the words for you.
I miss the lightening.
