We'll get used to it, don't worry.At the station, as always, the sparks are flying off our faces -bleached by winter as summer once tanned. It seems agesago since you slipped a handful of cherries into my eagerly-lipped mouth.Those mysterious polaroid days, when both we still dared to doubteverything that cannot be erased. I'll have to make memories when you're sleeping too far awayfrom my nightmares and from me. Yet the glimpse of you will walk with me all dayand I will still wear my dresses for you,as always.
Manipulative.You are a finger-faced blind creature, your emotions stab me in the eye.Yet you are the sightless one who weeps with tears I ought to cry.You advertise what I despisewhich makes me wonder whyYou still inflict woundsthat play terrible tunesand make my mouth run dry.