february through the woes of a girl I met on the train
not sure whose but mother was in a coma
soon the skeleton was colder
than the night her son tried to slide his hand
reaping the lament underneath my skirt
I was no better because I killed my existential crisis
by reciting my poems to the guy I knew
he wasn’t so keen to literary
yet I invited the clouds to float around
his already damp room
the flesh of poetry was red and alive
february was scarlet, and so was I
except when the job I pursued turned me down
I sought a device to unfurl this repressed desire
slept with someone and drown the poor guy in the river
she told me
and then I met you, she followed
I ignited a fire from the arsonist’s potion
gone my innocence but nobody was hurt, the song ended
to me she spoke fluent daffodils
half dead with frangipani on her ear
