Names of
Fearing whom I love I find my way,
Trusting instincts only to betray.
Who was I, to be born
For a hope of which I’m shorn?
Searching for uncommon ground
In our speech without sound
I find I want to tell you of
The varied names for love
But it seems that, once again,
The ones I know all end in pain.
There is a tourist store
There is a tourist store
Where we buy them
And give them cameras
To take with their silly clothes.
We tag them and follow them
To see our home again
Through alien eyes.
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