Your appearance is an portal opening.
And no light escapes.
Left to wish to look behind the curtain.
And you hide your eyes behind lenses tinting your iris.
Your pachouli smell brings me home right away.
Oh hell I miss having long hair, for the first time in years.
Whipping them across the train, to the darkness creeping through my ear pieces.
As I did in Berlin, when I was still your age and not a vintage.
When I was despair unleashed upon my fellow travellers.
Yet, here we are and I look at you and only myself reflects back.
All silver and black.
My skirts were short too, but made of latex.
And desperately now, I want to explore what pains you.
To close my wounds a little while.
Outwardly I still smile, but I rip.
Pain’s still fun.