Sad songs make me feel disjointed,
like I'm not yet existing.
Rather waiting in line.
Waiting for my time.
Every perfect moment ruined by the taste of alcohol
on your breath
though I still remember the sun on my face.
Reminding me of all the summers past and
how she used to sing.

Well, she don't sing anymore.

So I did instead. On the
bus ride home.
With your fleeting taste clinging to my
lips as my only audience.
Private show.
Songs about those days when you counted my ribs through
my summer dresses. Painted
by numbers and coloured
me thin.
Have I got this wrong?
Distinguishing between the voices inside my head and
what you really said. It's all particulars for which I
care not.

This world ain't big enough
for the both of us darling,
she said.
That's not the truth.
This is not honesty.

Birds who sing songs about
love know nothing of the
And the same goes for you,