The grass is greener on my side,
this time
and it's freshly mowed,
releasing its scent into the noses
of the kids running up and down the streets,
screaming their praises to the god of summer,
and begging for just a little bit more time.
Steam rising from the burning pavement,
the smell of cookouts
the warm air
springing life to the city around me.

Riding in my car with all the windows down
screaming along to Say Anything
and feeling alive with the glory of love.
All of this creeping up on me
surprising me with its inviting grin,
everything is funny now
because all of this
always leads me
straight back
to you.

I dig my toes into the cold dark dirt
thinking to myself these words
that could never encompass
the taste of the atmosphere around me,
finally wrapping itself in a flannel blanket.
I feel like a broken record
scratching at the same chorus,
trying adjectives to describe the way
today smells like better times,
but I'm determined
and I'll keep trying
to make these times even better.

Robbers take what we hold dear, not only materialistic things. You broke the typical robber stereotype.

I don’t want to close my eyes anymore. I’m afraid I might find you - again. Robbers don’t necessarily come in the dark. I can still see my reflection in your eyes, pleading. My whole outlook on people changed. I don’t want to see anymore. You robbed me of my sight.

My skin is a living paradox. It is hot to the touch, because of bottled up anger, yet it is cold. It is cold where your fingers once danced graciously over me, like a dancer gliding over the floor. You never told me you could dance. I now refuse to touch my own skin. It doesn’t feel the same anymore. You took my sense of touch when you left.

We went for strawberry milkshakes when we met, just before... Strawberry milkshakes were my favourite. Notice the past tense? I want to confront you about what you did, but I cannot face you. I tried calling to no avail. The words burned in my throat and I became mute. I ended up not saying anything at all. Strange, my voice and my sense of taste left with you.

I can still smell you beside me - roses and regret. I try to avoid roses now. I bought a bouquet out of spite, in a desperate attempt to get back at you in some crazy way. I destroyed it. Nothing came of this, except the realisation that I cannot bare the smell of roses. My sense of smell was taken away by you.

I still hear your voice echoing in my thoughts. The sweet nothing’s you whispered. You were right when you said that nobody will know about this. You were wrong when you said that it wouldn’t hurt, because I’m still in pain. I cannot even listen to certain voices anymore. The more your voice echoes in my mind, the more my hearing fades away. You stole my hearing.

Robbers can be charged with breaking and entering. Why can’t you? Isn’t a lack of consent exactly the same? A simple guy like me, could never trust a woman ever again. You are a robber, and you robbed me of my senses.

I let the flames burn, and I taste the morning.

I let the smoke rise, and it joins the taste of the morning.

I let the heat cook through my skin, the saturation reach its peak, and now I taste the morning.

The tangibly sweet anguish of an evening well spent is on my lips, down my throat, throughout my being...

I let the spark ignite,
and so I must taste the morning.