Recollections jammed into a glass jar. If I'm left on a shelf in the third room on the first floor will you paint the walls the colour of your eyes. Last night, the night before and maybe all the nights before that they dragged whispers out of the seams around my heart. Blotch them in golden-blue-flows-green. Did you miss me with your legs folded down and out under a Christmas decoration I stole? Will you miss me in some third room next to a payphone that'll never dial me? Never tell me about the nights that would have me up kissing the clock at 3AM, when you whisper that you're home safe. You whisper that my heart's still safe. Isn't it strange? Nostalgically I think of places I've never seen and the depths feel empty. The depths feel free. I dip my feet into uncertainty and bask in the idea that nothing is more certain than you. Fold my solitude up, hide it in your back pocket. Here now maybe tomorrow and all the days thereafter and before and maybe yesterday or today and basically always, that's how long I'll last should you let us. Will we let us. Let us go forth in the name of twenty promises in a homemade bag. It stretches itself out against the car window shouting your name until its throat runs raw. I've never begged for anything other than the time you keep. Your hand on my left knee while green signs shout your name in white. Over and over and over. Let me hide in the hollows of your shoulders. Let me hide. Let me hide. Form my hideaway.