When time and space allow us to go to bed
and I can feel the warmth of your feet
next to mine in our room without light,
it feels as if, together, we cross a bridge.
But this is not a bridge of mortar and stone;
this is more a bridge made of smoke.
Later when we both lay back and smoke
basking in the heat we've made in the bed,
I feel as if we both could turn to stone
and never move, not ten or twenty feet.
We'd lose the past by burning all our bridges
and turn toward that shaky future-light.
But then our dark is shattered by daylight,
and we open up the windows to free the smoke.
We have one great gap left to bridge
and questions that find no answer in our bed.
The distance between our homes is miles not feet.
Four hundred miles of roads of blackened stone.
I think we've both found that getting stoned
doesn't make the burden any lighter.
I've often wondered just how many feet
are in four hundred miles. Why can't I walk on smoke?
and join you in the warmth of your own bed
without the help of cars or manmade bridges.
If distance is the only thing to bridge
and the feelings that we have are engraved in stone,
the fact that we can't always share a bed
does not make our love seem any lighter.
The feelings that we have won't turn to smoke,
and the distance between us will soon be only feet.
When those miles do become but feet
and we have no single trouble left to bridge
and we can sit together and drink and smoke
then we will have no use for roads of stone.
Together we can turn out the last lights,
and in our darkness make our way to bed.
Until that time of light I think of stone bridges.
I smoke and lay my feet on your side of the bed.