The end is near
It's almost February
It's clear to me
The end is very near
Clean sheets of January
Shrink'd in the surface
I hope for the future
In the arms of my Harry
I want to be a star
I want to be the moon
I want to be the space
As I do not belong here
I want to go out the atmosphere
I want to become air
I want to be my hair
A nest of cashmere
Won't you lay on me
Infinitely
Won't you be with me
When I'm poor
But poetic
Won't this be the month
When dead and alive is one
When I'm all I wanted to become
For all of this long?
Won't this be done
