Gray Song

The night we met outside the show

you said what's gone is gone and yet

You were thinking about what a friend had said

Gray letters you write can never be read

The ink in a pen 

in the palm of your hand

won't mean a thing

or turn a feather into lead

It won't tap the ground like a shoe

Or dry like ink on a pillow

a thought in your head

that beats like a drum 

in a song

on the tip of your tongue

There is a gray song inside us now

so we look for the gray leaves

I saw you collecting the gray leaves

I knew you were humming that tune

tapping your toes

like you were at the opera

 or the rodeo..

I guess I'll always think of you that way