I'll stay here lying
on your bed. Even for the rest of
my days. With its side empty
spaced, where you once used to
stay. Have you ever noticed the
glimpses upstairs? These rooms
are all that matter.

And on the
walls these pictures scream and
ask me what I've done to seem so
amused by the way of having done
nothing today. They all have their
eyes covered up with paint. Their
room is all that matters.

I can
walk up the walls, but can't make
water out of wine. So I'm desperate
for some cold rain to wash those
hands of mine.

I'll stay here
listening to the crowds and hear
the footsteps and the shouts. But
it's all passing me by, tangled up
in my own life. Have I missed the
clue of your brave escape? For
this is what - you said - matters.

Some other town, some other day.
Another [bad word] up her way.