We stood outside,
and shared a cigarette,
nervous, I looked down,
and saw my $200 leather shoes,
you, bare foot.
And I thought how much more you could feel,
through your live skin.
How you didn’t own a $12,000 Grand Piano,
but could make more beautiful a sound out of it than I.
And your words were riches,
but not the colour of green,
as we discussed the gorgeous sound of rain,
and as I counted the freckles on your cheek,
I knew that without fabric on our bodies,
you’d be worth a wealth more than I.
And you asked how often it was I saw the stars,
all I remembered were my open topped cars,
and how I never took my eyes off the road,
never dared to stop and raise my head.
So you invited me to look up then,
and how bloody embarrassing!
I couldn’t name but a single constellation.
How could you fall for such a fool?
Your lips were gold,
my suit was paper;
I could tear it apart,
and I’d be worth no less.
You were the first,
not to see me for my money,
but to see the money in me.