I don't think about the number eighteen much,
but the one numbered eighteen fills my mind.
Eighteen years, fourteen letters, five days.
I never got numbers, but your numbers have got me
trapped in a whirlwind of old stories and little facts.
I think about how many kisses, lovers, fights, quiet conversations you've had.
I'm trapped in a flurry of numbers.
I'm happy there,
but you're more interested in the colours of someone else,
her eyes, her lips, her skin.
I'm trapped in a flurry of numbers,
and you're running free in a spectrum of colours.