They say she’s touched.
She’s been touched by many men;
Her mind bends and extends in agony;
She’s forgotten who she’s longed to be.
The say she’s depressed, or obsessed;
For how could we not see that she is;
She’s been this way and it’s not hard to say;
I say touche, but there’s more to this lady.
She walks round at midnight holding a bouquet-
Of multicolored floral decorations to take up space;
They say her head is up there, in a space unreachable;
And I know she decorates the landscape with her fake flowers;
Ego strong and as tall as three Eiffel towers.
They say I am touched for loving her.
They say I am touched for other reasons as well;
Touche, I say, but still, is it my fault then?
I see the breaks and the bends and the floral ballet-
She dances. And I know she longs to dance with me.
So I wait, and wait-the pain an unending nervousness;
Compelling me to break, down, down, down, we go, or I.
I know it was me at the center of the vase of her flowery dreams-
They may say nay and I touche, but I know deeply-
Nothing is as it seems.