it was just the colour of the room
the old carpets turned clean
the junk by the road that i carried to your house
it was just the light of a dying sun
just the perfume i stopped wearing
when i met you.

((it went stale, even in the dark))

the loneliness is something else,
just a flaw or a figment
((& i have you to blame))
but it's the confrontation,
the seclusion
of the situation.

in a gazebo, between the dry sky
& the people down below
it's surreal, it's cinematic
this is a taste of perception.
i'm a mess.

toes grind their way into the ground
wiggle about in a nervous respite.

am i that disconcerting?
just because my voice falters
when i tell you about myself.
i ramble, rave because
there's so much i shouldn't say.

later i have to wonder what was said. perhaps i just kept all the meaning to myself. did i tell you that i'm no good at being right? it's something you should know.

i'm tired.

the words mean that much more
when you sing them to yourself.