I got good at maths, since we last spoke. Counting weeks, since you gave a fuck. I remember love, how it fell through my fingers, at another’s hand. Am I clear enough? Or am I counting goodbyes, that wanted to stay?

Reconcile. Wreck my life, down at the river bank, say you’re so full of sense, but I’ve never been so confused, and starved of closure, throwing myself into the water, remaining dry as a desert, deserted, dismal, desperate. Kiss me, when I’m chaotic, say you’re sick of being separate, but you sit, inside a tower,…

You ask what I want. My fingers find our future. I point. Do you see? I point. Do you see? My future, in your fingers. So fragile. So clean. So fragile. So clean. Afraid of muddy moments. No immune system. No immune system. Locked away. Must keep us safe. Can we survive this? Can we…

I read our lives to you, as I rest, surrounded by the rest of our days, daring to dive into my dreams, deep and delightful. I am live on air, living for you, love in it’s purest, prettiest form, painting masterpieces, with messy, well meaning hands.