The Morning

	I know that I'm not a poet
	because I get too bored with the words.
	And all I can see is the wasted time
	and there's no sublime
	like the small of your back;
	the base of your spine.
	What was it that you wanted that you would not want again?
	What was it that you wanted that you would not want again?
	I know that you couldn't listen to that song.
	It froze you right there where you stood.
	We carried the weight of this love for so long;
	Flew down the hill side,
	sand in our hand.
	The sun was upon us
	as we fell through the air.
	What was it that you wanted that you would not want again?
	What was it that you wanted that you would not want again?
	After the boards and the nails had their way
	and all of the saints were put to shame,
	all I could see was the wasted breath;
	the reality of betrayal,
	how we lied to each other,
	but mostly to ourselves.
	What was it that you wanted that you would not want again?
	What was it that you wanted that you would not want again?
	All I can see is the morning coming back
	and making the world whole again.
	The hopefulness of another chance,
	to not go wander or settle for less
	and holding the miracle
	in the palm of your hand,
	to witness a beginning
	you can almost understand.
	What was it?
	What was it?
	What was it that you wanted that you would not want again?
	What was it that you wanted that you would not want again?
	What was it?
	What was it?