I was painting my nails and listening
to rock 'n' roll, something about insobriety
colonizing like bacteria at the sliver
between headphones and skin, and maybe
(just maybe) if your musical taste
didn't deviate so much from my alterego's,
then maybe you could call this yearning.
Maybe.
Maybe the colours of my clothes
make me unfittingly pretty, maybe leather
only hides my fragile figure,
maybe all of my fictional love poems
were about you, maybe I wanted you
to make my first kiss non-fictional.
We gather possibilites like beggars,
counting bread crumbs after breakfast
just to prove how dishevelled our mouths become
when radios speak louder than us, but
what's the use of discovering cracks in our walls,
when none of us are willing to break them down.
