Perhaps.

With the stale airs of forced breath
And deserted teacups and poisoned arrowheads,
With the rising ginger of wrinkled love
And lipstick coated smiles and teeth,
Perhaps it's time.

Through a powdered life and butchers' knives
And hands full of burning fireflies,
With funerals for dying machines,
Perhaps it's time to set you free.

And with scented candles and paper ducks
And hair that falls in bits and tufts,
With cats run over by speeding cars,
It's time to walk away towards
Another life, another lie,
Another stab at a perfect love story
For my love for you
Is a Russian winter
And I am just your morning glory.

Perhaps.