Literature
Cashier.
Early morning, in the cold, on your roof,
I'm saying I'm sorry for kissing you.
Spontaneous things make me such a goof,
and below us, leaves shed their morning dew.
This is the first time I have seen your face
in eight months, and your hair color has changed.
I ask why you brought me back to this place.
You say your dreams said it must be arranged.
Our cigarette smoke weaves up toward the skies,
and you say there's got to be more out there
than these silly dreams of jet planes and lies.
Your heart still believes that life can be fair.
But we're still young, with too much time on hand.
We force these young minds of ours back to land.