Quarry Pt. 2

No, it wasn’t the way she danced No, it isn’t the skin she has Yes, it was the way she stole my small, broken heart With her blow of honey breath, the hurt flew apart With her motherly instincts, she carefully placed My heart back in my chest You have no clue What I’ve been through To want someone like you She is scathing between the gaps in my fingers As her skin cells amalgamate into raw sand My leftover hand, red as it swelters Did I throw her away, or did she collapse? Could it be her quarry stones or forbidden glass That which I cannot grasp: does she understand I want her so bad, my downcast laugh shams Girl, you got me running from myself; now I accept I’m a man I wouldn’t want my daughter to have So, with haste . . . I am