Your guitar is left untouched

Your computer is shut down

Your eyes are heavy, enclosed from last night

I touch your unshaven face, the kind of raspy I felt in between my legs

I roll out of bed and straight to your living room

The smell is of you, the one I’m still not quite accustomed to

Our sporadic encounters leave me warm inside

The kind I haven’t felt since the happy brown eye girl died

I go into your kitchen and look for your medicine cabinet, then it occurs to me I’m probably the only human being that keeps their medicine right above their spices, just like any indigestion of food

I turn around and spot my reflection on an awkwardly placed mirror

My hair is long and red, the one I had before I got depressed

I like you because you understand, or maybe it's because you don’t try to understand

When I lay in bed all day and you bring your guitar and sit down next to me

You play me little tunes for my sadness, I write words of morose for your amusement

We work because I’m sad and you’re not and for some reason you’re not fed up with my mood swings and my weird yet, nonetheless this disease that’s consuming the optimist girl you first met.