Bed Of Dry Roses
So yesterday she came clean and told me she was leaving,
She said she was more of a shadow than a keeper,
And I was more of a brother than a lover,
That I was too gentle, that I left no scar that would tickle her heart,
That she prefered being scratched to being soothed.
She said the road was too smooth she was slipping to nothingness.
She says she got tired of choreographed drama that was the signature of our relationship,
That she was the lead actress in a show that I had booked a ticket for her,
And that she would be more glad to sit and watch from a distance,
Rather than act her heart out to the audience that was her.
Well, she gave me a bed of roses and the fragrance lured me to dreams of her,
Now the roses have dried up and the thorns grow longer with each night,
The rot deep down scares my sleep away and I drown in sleepless stares
dotted by awfully short spurts of sleep hijacked by ocassional nightmares of her,
My parents taught me love with love, but not how to love,
I saw my lover as my sister and trusted her as a mother,
She tried to teach me otherwise with private talks and seductions,
But my modesty proved to be my undoing,
I wrote her hot poems but my hands proved too timid to complete the bond,
Now she looks for a lover in a stranger.
I fear my bed of roses will rot to dust and soil,
But, maybe from it, another love will sprout and fill my thirst with an even greater fragrance,
I look at it with hope that the thorns wont kiss my heart,
and let the little hope in there leak to oblivion.
I fear that she will weave a better bed for that stranger,
And forget about the one she made for me,
Maybe the stranger will sleep on it as I did,
Maybe he will punch holes in it,
And make her fill them up with her emptiness.
Well, at the moment I'll just lie on my bed of dry roses,
look for the one who'll replace the thorns with her velvet covered smile,
And wipe away my regrets with her understanding.
Now I know the feeling of dry roses, and the meaning of fresh ones,
I won't throw the latter for the former, not again.
She said she was more of a shadow than a keeper,
And I was more of a brother than a lover,
That I was too gentle, that I left no scar that would tickle her heart,
That she prefered being scratched to being soothed.
She said the road was too smooth she was slipping to nothingness.
She says she got tired of choreographed drama that was the signature of our relationship,
That she was the lead actress in a show that I had booked a ticket for her,
And that she would be more glad to sit and watch from a distance,
Rather than act her heart out to the audience that was her.
Well, she gave me a bed of roses and the fragrance lured me to dreams of her,
Now the roses have dried up and the thorns grow longer with each night,
The rot deep down scares my sleep away and I drown in sleepless stares
dotted by awfully short spurts of sleep hijacked by ocassional nightmares of her,
My parents taught me love with love, but not how to love,
I saw my lover as my sister and trusted her as a mother,
She tried to teach me otherwise with private talks and seductions,
But my modesty proved to be my undoing,
I wrote her hot poems but my hands proved too timid to complete the bond,
Now she looks for a lover in a stranger.
I fear my bed of roses will rot to dust and soil,
But, maybe from it, another love will sprout and fill my thirst with an even greater fragrance,
I look at it with hope that the thorns wont kiss my heart,
and let the little hope in there leak to oblivion.
I fear that she will weave a better bed for that stranger,
And forget about the one she made for me,
Maybe the stranger will sleep on it as I did,
Maybe he will punch holes in it,
And make her fill them up with her emptiness.
Well, at the moment I'll just lie on my bed of dry roses,
look for the one who'll replace the thorns with her velvet covered smile,
And wipe away my regrets with her understanding.
Now I know the feeling of dry roses, and the meaning of fresh ones,
I won't throw the latter for the former, not again.
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