When did the world become a great mess of handwriting,
When did we no longer shout out our hate but instead
Wrote it down on scraps of paper?
Maybe because it hurts more to know that
You used an old napkin to tell me sweet nothings
Rather than the same voice that used to silence the night
And play amongst the stars;
That used to direct me through my own irony
And breathe in the mercury of my mind.
Maybe because it’s better to have my last glimpse of half-happiness
From the glimmer of your swirling r’s and hardly legible t’s;
Maybe it’s because I need to reread your reasons for falling down
More than I need to remember your reasons for trying to stand.
You’re still losing yourself in wide bags of white dust
That disintegrate your precious mind.