It's starting to confuse me,
the fact that Spring will fall into Autumn
like spiderwebs being swept off my ceiling,
so rapidly that when I open my eyes
the seasons will have ducked under me and swapped positions.
I want to colour blanks pages with my hot blood,
and not have to put up with the
depressing, lukewarm, soapy white.
But I don't want to fall through the glass
of my monochrome safety while I still have it.
You wanted me to dye my hair blonde,
but I laughed and tried not to
let myself get stirred up in your expectations.
I know you're gorgeous, but there are
some things I've learnt not to sacrifice.
As the wind laughs across my cheeks,
I wonder what it would be like to
run my teeth along yours.
I could be your wind.
I wonder what sort of gunk would collect on my teeth.
There are photographs of popcorn on cinema floors,
of the tips of your hair,
of croissants and hot chocolate
pinned on the wall of my mind
because the real things won't fit in my suitcase.
written: Wednesday 25th August 2004, 10:15pm.
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