This is not love

Winds howled. Rains spit down. All these nights playing precious games. Cheap hotel in some seaboard town closed down for the winter and whispered names. Puppy-dog waves on a big moon sea snap our heels half-heartedly and how come you know better than me that this is not love. No, this is not love. Empty drugstore postcards freeze sunburst images of summers gone. Think I see us in these promenade days before we learned October's song. Out on the headland, one gale-whipped tree; curious, head bent to see. And how come you know better than me that this is not love. Down to the sad south, smokey plumes mark that real world city home. Broken spells and silent gloom ooze from that concrete honeycomb. Puppy-dog waves on a big moon sea snapped our heels half-heartedly and how come you know better than me that this is not love.