Funeral

I wouldn't ask, if we could dance, though I have that sort of romance.
The songs I know are sad, like the arms that I've had,
Once holding in promise:  forever and a day
Now as leaves and petals blown away.

I can't tell if its wine or moonbeams,
I can't tell if its life or safe dreams
When I'm in your arms, dear midnight
And the stars are holy and bright.

Songs like thine are known to the mockingbird.
Not to offer, not to imply, not to be awkward...
But will you let me bring flowers after these garden showers
In setting suns throwing their ache; and the night will not awake?

I can't tell if I said “love” enough, or not enough at all,
I can't tell if it means a thing; now, at this grand funeral
When I'm weeping at the emptiness where you were,
Where some phantom of repose seems to stir.

I can't tell if my heart aches or sings,
If its mockingbirds or diamond rings
I can't tell if I'm walking with my feet on the ground,
I can't tell if I'm singing or if I do not make a sound.

I can't tell if its wine or moonbeams, I am drunk on something more precious now.
But I do not think I can smile again. I'll say I'm too weak from kissing
Or thinking of missing you in a future so empty where the sun sets on my grave.

I can't tell what epitaph is cruel or kind,
I cannot tell, I cannot read what is on your mind...
Even in your arms fair midnight that I hold
With the madness and sorrow never told.