On Friday nights, I think of you
You've held me nigh, beneath the blue
You've kissed my lips, with my eyes closed
in casual warmth — I'd once supposed.
Your eyes are light, it has the sky
They caught my eye, they hung my sigh.
I thought I loved, I thought I'm loved
Your love wronged me, oh beloved.
I sat beside a running stream
in wisp of smoke across its steam —
The candle night with soft thin flames
The gentle night, our easy games...
The smiles, the curls of your thin hair
The scalp of you as flower's fair,
The shrill in you, the soft whisper...
They touched my heart, my admirer.
But dreams are graves, and shrouded gowns
The crowns now live as jest for clowns,
If dreams are dreams, they'll be fiction
You are to me an addiction.
If love is love, make it a play
The cast away of stones by day
and windows draw when shadows walk,
If love is love, it'd been a talk.
— Philip Peace