Standing at the head of the bed With tears spitting effortlessly From your puffy mallow eyes, Like an angel with a coca cola Dribbling on The cotton sheets, Some poorly crafted child’s token, Broken and unmade, screaming White hot milk tears; Your breasts shaking like an old man Laughing at the moon, whisky In hand, coughing, and waiting For the end game. So I stand too, but apart, At the edge of the attic room, With the curtains crying like silk, And, taking the scissors from The desk, I cut four long strokes down my chest, With nothing left to say. I stand And bleed. Fuck you.

Those long summer clichés are all but ended. Their old armchair securities you’d intended to enjoy, Which toyed with permanence, are once more suspended, Replaced with new ideals. As red ochre rolls in like the sea The air fills with a fresh but faint nostalgic energy. Like a million minute breaths; Like the space between what you want and what you need.