I press your hand in mine however cautiously, I keep a smile right to myself And I lapse into the grasp of an overriding obsession And I get sick as I watch my interests fall into suspension This winter So cold, creeping down your arm Stealth soldiers, creeping around your palm It's hard, hard to understand Little victories won creeping around your hand The sickness has taken hold through violent, blurted syllables Escape my mouth under my breath The voice of pricking dread is whispering insistent in my ear My paranoia galvanised by your gaze, so austere This winter... I pinned your crest to my chest, hoping it might start to look right There was hushed talk of young boy's corpse lying face down in some river His hands used to move like mine I can't stand myself this morning, I am practically that boy No strength to endure, ghostly insecure, pallid through lack of choice This winter
