It’s the air in your mother’s lungs when your father tore her defenses down. It was a sold motorcycle, a dying dream which never made it far, just to keep that heaters on. If I died on my bedroom floor would you cry on your bedroom floor? Tattoo my name underneath your arm and reminisce about my boyish charm? We have material minds, restless hands and longing hearts with empty beds where your voice blew in but was swept away. A reminder of warm palms on a hot spring day. Something that was alive in the olden days, but been put to death in this golden age by our colour TV and some family's SUV. Theres still love hiding in this world, beating from the heart of that young girl. I don't remember what it used to feel like.
