Blue and red threads pump life through the seven hundred and fifty two dollar check sleeping in your letter box. Oxygenated by the driver of your 11:15 bus, and the Hindi speaking hand dropping down your Bali Shag. Breathing out what you think are anecdotes and false diagnosis. But we saw you on that balconey. Your Dean white shirt told us everything about you. Liar, ja nai. Liar, no puedes.
Those three days opened every door and window, along with every mouth and eye. But it was I, that time, who finally caught you red eyed and empty handed.
Left-handed and stranded.
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