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He cut your strings so that he could float - lit by lights, lifted by alcohol - over acres of loving coast, far away from your lonely ghost. Now he's cool and all, floating anchorless. Ports of call: where it's fabulous, after all of this watching himself just crawl. Think you see him? He's not there, that's just light that's not yet dead. Wait two hours and
watch what'll be there
instead. Was he small and
cold, like a ring you call up
from home, held so tightly his limbs went numb, worn
away between your finger and thumb? Well, now he's bought
and sold. Cry his call number down the phone, he can't hear
you - he's on his float,
waving down to the folks at
home. As the cameras love all
of his faces, they hide all
the traces of you in his heart. Stand in line to hold forth on his grace, but you won't even get a head-start. As his close-up comes cascading down from above, the eyes of a nation in love are looking on all of their hopes held up. And the words that some screenwriter counted and chose, and then set in their sequence and froze, unfreeze on his tongue as he speaks for all of us but one. And honey, he's gone. And baby, he's everyone's. In the dark sky tonight, cast your eyes on the dim light that he will become. You're like everyone who thinks they see him. He's not there, that's just light that's not yet dead. Wait two hours and watch what'll be there in |
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