we fail in our aura of traumatic meetings
of ruby lips and a similar tone
wine and fucked up love songs that end
in desperation and a longing to hold one another
or perhaps something that has been so numbed out

a figure of a pale girl, blurry. all white.
she  feels nothing. but herself.
which is all she has left,
that
that is
all we
have left

If I remove myself and place my soul on some kind
of height
some altering place so that it is not mine anymore
it would look like you

generations have passed in what is really something
smaller than a peculiar year of very quite screams
and hidden agony, that would expose itself like
a mother who can no longer hold her tears in front of her children
we couldn't protect each other from that pain anymore

that has all turned into dust.