Anatomy apres l'amour.

I guess I have written something lately so here it be:

You're like a tall, deeply rooted tree growing
from the side of my head, is it showing?
I'm a four-leaf clover with one missing arm,
mutant and unlucky, I've lost all my charm.
And my stomach, churns like cream in a barrel,
my eardrums are rattling, hurts to the marrow.
My hair has lost all its splendor,
it's just plain brown, like the month of November,
like the months of December, May, and July,
when we climbed that iron fence, some five meters high.
My tongue sometimes tastes that smoky, winter feel,
but it's only the lack of sleep, not anything real.
Maybe if I open my eyes really wide,
I'll remember what it was that put me on your side.
Maybe it was the change of season and your rose, runny nose;
your delicate fingers, the tapping of your toes.
But I think it was the sky, that breezy summer night,
that made me let go of all inhibitions to fight.
You softly sang of my hair and this town,
a city far away, and I hoped we could drown
to freeze-frame the moment, my head on your lap;
my heart in your hand, that tree and its tap.