Through holes spotted on my veins you sound like a mad river, telling me only the things I can never accept, shoving your voice down, ripping, crushing my fragile tympani into a freezing blood rain. Hey, here's your umbrella, the same as all those black parachutes bloomed on the day your father had married for the second time, leaving you and your mother assuming he was dead, and yes, he was. He was dead in your heart with all your unforgiveness disguised as a strangely unconditional love, just like one of your old shirts your mother had sewed for you now hanging in front of your beautiful neck, tied into a noose, a fascinating noose I would like to die for.

I am singing you a song of the ringing dawn, a kind of song which probably would only be played on the last day of earth when there would be no regret waiting, a kind of song which would be forgotten forever after its first note; no more swaying on the edge of the cliff, no more waiting to be pushed down, no more begging for the oven to be turned on.

I want ocean, and there you are out of my reach.