So I watched Sting as he played a lute,
as he sang of golden fields
as they rustled in the wind.
In my mind I wrote a scene
where two would-be lovers lay side by side.
She says, “I love you, you know.”
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah,” says he, as his eyes
roll slightly back behind his lowered lids,
seeing in his mind who knows what,
“and I love you too.”
“This is the worst best thing.”
And she will turn to him and smile,
And she will raise from him and cry.
And he will whisper into her neck from behind her back,
just before she leaves him,
“You. Oh, my God, yes, you.”