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There's nothing new
I see you everyday.
You’re not that original, you know.
But still no one is quite the same work of art
No matter where I go.
I’ve seen your style, and your brush stroke,
Though they’re never all quite the same.
I’ve seen the same colors, blended so well,
But each time the hue has a different name.
I’ve heard the same strains on a violin,
Notes arranged in the same key,
But never have I met a compose who has yet
To impress me with your same sensitivity.
I’ve smelled the odour of oil on canvas,
The touch of smoothness over coarse
It gave me a rush, but my cheeks did not flush,
Like they did when your lips did them endorse.
I’ve tasted your kiss, but it didn’t feel the same,
I know it wasn’t right, but I uttered your name,
I’ve felt the brush of your fingers,
Not accompanied with your kiss,
The firm fluidity of your back,
But no feeling of bliss.
Who can explain all this self-inflicted pain,
Why I try to find you in tears and in rain?
Why do I need you to be in my life?
Why are you the only one with whom I’d put up such strife?
Every day is exactly the same,
If such sameness is determined by how it ends.
I know you need more than adulation and fame,
And I cannot settle with just being friends.
