On The Balcony

All mozzies have retired, most of the beer is gone, those stars, so much admired I picture you, in Bonn. And not a single star belongs to only me, if you, so bloody far, stand on your balcony you own them just the same, and notice their sly twinkle. you whisper now my name before you go to tinkle. And when you come back out we listen to the moon, who smiles behind a cloud and says it will be soon. * * * * * * * * 'I hear you, my sweet love, here on my balcony. I see the stars above, just went inside to pee. I listened to the moon who said that snow will come. I'll send you a balloon and wait until you come. When the balloon arrives Down Under and you hold it, the story of our lives, attached and neatly folded, will re-confirm what counts, what all the stars well know. And what, by now, amounts to our private glow that's bright as any moon. I hope you do not mind the size of a balloon, an elephant behind, a triple decker chin, with quite extensive wrinkling, I used to be so thin but, do you have an inkling that time has passed since then, when you and I invented the kiss beneath Big Ben? And when my dad relented and let us see Helsinki? Those were the happy years, (and sometimes even kinky) . But when October nears, we both should count the candles, now tell me about you. Are you still wearing sandals, your eyes are smashing blue? On second thought, sweet friend be silent now, not glum. So would you simply send yourself to me, please come.'