high above the sand.
You're crying in your window;
you do not see my hand.
You locked yourself in a long,
long time ago.
I stumbled in and found you,
embedded in your woe.
I stretched my hand and cried
for you to leave that place.
I heard you sob, you looked up,
and I beheld your face.
The pain, contorted there
is one that none should see,
And you turned away again;
you turned away from me.
I told you how I loved you;
I asked you to come down,
For I was sure that love
would bring you to the ground.
You spoke not, not a word,
and appeared not to care.
You're so inside yourself;
you missed what you had there. . . .
