When I was young I used to sleep and wake up
again. Sheets would glow between sun and
me, but then there was a delay. Pause. It was enough.
Radiohead played, and it’s complicated. The relationships, they are complicated.
A riff. Okay,
just one day. It was the best of
funerals. White, as Greene would have put
it.
And I was sixteen. They only love you when.
Don’t you
think I, at least, deserve an explanation?
Very well.
I wore an X on my hand. And red over my mouth.
The urinals in Masquerade until
the band died away.
So I could never figure exactly how again.
No comments:
Post a Comment