All the flashbacks have echoes, the running feet, the stampede untold, my veins bleeding with punch rush as I sit between your legs,
The blonde streak and the green shirt, my pinks and your fences.
You won’t be home in Spring, they think I can wait some more, it’s all such a blur.
All in all a mean streak and misery, running through chipped pavements, all the while a whine that echoes, a disgusting weeping reech that no one wants to hear.
Dear Litote, are you even listening? A whine is chasing you, and your stampede leads to the cracks in already broken pavements!
We are on this train, its speeding dangerously and you are fetishing carelessly.
There is no grass there, just black muck, something that you’ve been spilling all over the blanched Carrara everywhere.
You and your sweet tooth, I and my lack; I don’t think we’ll make it back.
The chill on your feet and the wind in your hair, all the stunts that you pulled and the muck everywhere,
And I see the twists and the fawns of your jokes, all the things that you hide and the lies you tell, Are all a facade that I can see through and you let me; you let me? Why do you let me then skive?
I am on my own and I have forgotten how to cry, it has truly been a while.
A skiving that breaks you, cracks me and smashes the world around us.
How will we even try?
All the joys and the blue skies turning green, foliage of brown seeping through the muck-stain.
(You are not green and neither am I.)
Green Muck-stains
