Winds howled. Rains spit down.

All these nights playing precious games.

Cheap hotel in some seaboard town

closed down for the winter and whispered names.

Puppy-dog waves on a big moon sea

snap our heels half-heartedly

and how come you know better than me

that this is not love.

No, this is not love.



Empty drugstore postcards freeze

sunburst images of summers gone.

Think I see us in these promenade days

before we learned October's song.

Out on the headland, one gale-whipped tree;

curious, head bent to see.

And how come you know better than me

that this is not love.



Down to the sad south, smokey plumes

mark that real world city home.

Broken spells and silent gloom

ooze from that concrete honeycomb.

Puppy-dog waves on a big moon sea

snapped our heels half-heartedly

and how come you know better than me

that this is not love.