I wonder about summer days
and screaming until my voice is hoarse;
of time that runs like oil
and gets between my fingers,
of how you hate the taste of olives.

It's April.
It's living again, breathing something other than car fumes
and I'm sat breathing smoke again,
hand dangling out of my bedroom window.

I stare at green.
I make jokes.
I do the things.

But there's a hollowness.
A warning of sticky, forever days that
cling to the surface of my skin;
bloom like spring in my lungs and starve me of oxygen
with an aggressive, loving life to them.

yes.
it hurt.
it all hurts.

i want to forgive you.