i hide my eyes behind thin strips of dried-out hair that filter the world
yet they're the only crystals on my dull grey image
that glitter.
behind the defensive armour is a heart beating to the pace
of a slow funeral march, at seven am, on a downcast, sunday morning.
you used to lie your head on my shoulder and drench me
in tears of happiness, but now i'm wet with self-pity
and dryness is a forgotten ideal that escapes my grasp
like the petals blowing in the summer wind.
they don't move fast, but i'm too tired to follow
their floaty pattern confuses my unused touch.
the bright sun and the bright flowers and the bright people
there's always a hidden sting beneath the exterior
i toast myself with wine even though i hate the taste
but i like sitting outside in the garden on the wooden chairs
and pretending that the future is bright and beautiful
like the dazzling colours sparkling from your sunglasses
that cost 50p from the local market.
but you could always fake expensive things, like love
it's way past sunset and the stars are whispering to me
but i ignore them and lick the last dribbles of spent alcohol
my hair is wet from the morning moisture
my lips are dry from long-lost memories and empty promises
summer has only just begun, but i've already ended.
