I am afflicted by a strange condition
That you can’t observe from outside
I am both certainty and indecision
Each single feeling is a wild ride.
But if you look a bit closer
And you take this woman apart
Now that you’ve gone and exposed her
You’ll spot her Rube Goldberg heart.
It’s a machine full of levers
Rows of pulleys and buttons
Lined up with pictures of lovers
Dog-eared, faded old photos.
When this contraption succeeds
And the pinball perfects its land
She breathes a sigh of relief
And finally holds out her hand.
Such a simple command
For all the turning and churning
She beckons like ocean to sand
Half celebration, half mourning.
Sometimes the pinball is stuck in a rut
It needs a good jiggle, a push, or a shove
A little caress, a kiss hits the spot
Because this poor thing is running on love.