I'm breathing just like you in grey green land. I'm you 17 years ago, too many years ago.
You're breathing stale air with ice cream and cheap beer with children watching TV and riding bikes, growing older.
Breathing like me in a place so close to my future, maybe 17 years too old.
Perhaps it was meant to be, perhaps
There's a reason why the little red letters keep appearing.
17 years too late.
One day we'll get away. One day our thoughts won't be so taboo.
17 years too old might be quite legal.
I can see us moving; or at least me moving and you must stay the same.
I can feel myself losing that little girl in the mirror, smirking now, fading evaporated tears. I can see the little red letters still appearing, words so unlike her wet and tired face, shapes so provocative, thoughts
17 years too old. I can see it never ending. Endless oblivion, white, and invisible lines, automatic phonetics and occassional laughing, still smirking slyly.
She must like it.
Attention must be a turn on.
I can see myself slicing you with my eyes slant-eyed smiling.
I can see myself ravaged and seduced.
By hand; I can.
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