Breathless Apathy
Screaming to the clouds, relentless rain and breathless apathy.
Beautiful in the midst of the imaginary storm.
‘You left me to scars, Robert Smith and this twisted .45’, as if anyone was listening.
Railway line, as if a train ticket could fix anything.
Suited disapproval, facing last nights clothes and the knowledge she’s not been home.
Platforms and timetables, blur into one irrelevant escape.
Nights and days, just as if the sun dictates what she should be doing.
They call if time, she threw her watch into the river and considered following it.
Summer, ‘08
Teenage years, the best of your life
Twisted: fantasy, reality
And the fine line between the two.
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