The throat problems I mentioned in passing in the last post have gotten worse. The story is basically that I somehow scratched the right side of my throat (food? toothbrush?), and it's failing to heal up properly. As yet, no fever, no swelling, no visible changes at all, really. But the pain is getting worse, and moving around.
I've enjoyed having a throat in the past: it's handy for, you know, eating, drinking, speaking, and so forth. But I'm beginning to reconsider whether they're really worth all the trouble.
Well I guess that's why they say
Every rose has its thorn. . . .
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
We both lie silently still
at the night's dead people.
Although we lie close together,
we feel miles apart inside.
Something I said or something I made
from the right gave you words; however,
I attempted not to hurt you; however, I attempted it,
but I guess that's why they talk.
Each rose has thorns,
as each night has our dawn,
as each cowboy sings his sad, sad song,
each rose has its thorns.
I listen to our most favorite song, playing on the radio.
I hear the loves of the game DJ. His opinion – easy to come, and easy to go.
But I find it interesting: I know I've always felt this way,
and I know that you were here somehow.
If I could've prevented it, you know, somehow,
then however much the time interval was, I guess
I could still feel only so much pain.
Like a knife which wounds you, they cure it, but
the scar: I know those scar remnants.
I could preserve that night's love if
I knew to say instead
to make love with us.
They both made our roads separately.
Now I hear that you're considering someone new,
and that I never meant that much to you.
In order to hear that, I break upward to inward,
and seeing you cuts me as a knife, I guess.