“Often Do I Wonder”

Darling often do I wonder,
Am I living in a dream?
In the soft-pink walls of my room,
This passion’s often what it seems.

The world’s endless in all directions,
As it seems from here,
And the oceans and the mountains,
At horizons disappear.

The quiet haunts me from the window,
With faraway sounds unclear,
More-so when I know,
That to you they’re nowhere near.

When we talk,
Its smiles and sound,
But in reality there’s nothing here,
Just an empty room,
No physical proof of your existence.
Even the letters and the gifts,
They’re of the past.
But of the present, I have one souvenir,
Just my simple thoughts.

Who can prove me that its real,
But the feeling in my heart?
And who’s to say it wasn’t illusioned,
From the very start?

In the soft pink walls of my room,
All is peaceful; all is safe,
But what troubles me to my core,
Is that no such form does my love take.

From this view out through my window,
From the peaceful and the safe,
I feel in helpless isolation,
From the glories found in fate.

Who would want to be exposed,
To the open, to the rain?
As if in masochistic calling,
Here I am,
In some way, looking for your face.

Because if I can’t feel your heartbeat,
Then I need to feel the world’s,
For if it exists,
Then surely, so must yours.

I can dance within the fires,
Of the city discontent,
In the troubles of the soulless,
In the pains of angry men.

Then at other times I’ll bask,
In the sunshine of the lovers,
In the patience of the teachers,
And in kindness hushedly made.

And all the little discontents,
So alive and so descript,
Will be tribute to the feeling,
That escapes my rational grip.

Darling often do I wonder,
How can anything be real?
But I look out to find thunder,
And it reminds me, oh, of you.

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