She likes fashion and interviews. I like getting lost. Sometimes she grabs my bulge, as she drinks from an aluminum flask. She told me to rhyme something with 'flask'. I said, "Fine. In your life, you've been wearing a mask. But I can see. And you can see. They can't see. That you are a detached, blond doll and your back is against the wall, as I kiss your neck until you're dead." She said to rhyme something with 'dead'. I said, "Fine. You ******* in my head. And it's quarrelsome that they don't see that you're numb. I'd pull on your lip, with my teeth. Dig my hand between your legs. Just to make you feel. Just to make you feel. And I study your hairbrush to see that there are too much strands of memories from melodies that lay dormant in ballrooms and scented kisses that drip of the misses in your life and mine." She said **** me with your words. I refused because I'd rather watch her bloom in my dreams than the seams of a fiber noose that rings loose the bell in your neck that sounds until birds fly and we die- You look at me, "Home."