So Hand me your Soul and your Love.

And I don’t believe in second chances
or quiet Sunday afternoons.

And I don’t believe in the record player, chipped,
in the corner of your scattered room.

And all of this, oh yes, this all
feels far away from me, from you.

Yet still I believe in honesty
like the girl in the loft with the musical words
that floated forth like whispers into the street-light spectrum
of another brink of night.