He says he won't budge.
He says he’ll stay right here
In the decaying corner of my heart
Where i stash up bad news,
Piles of envelopes of them.
He makes it his job, see,
This is how he spends his days.
Sorts my daily mail of bad news,
Sends them through a shredder,
And throws a confetti of paper on me,
During our nightly celebrations of nothing.
A shredder is not all he has.
In his back-pocket is a glitter pen.
The same ink my weekly fan mails are written.
Each week a different font, maybe.
But always the same colour.
They have stopped working their charm on me.
I give them one glance, maybe two,
And continue my vigil of the lost.
But on soft celebratory evenings,
When you cut an imaginary cake,
Dance with me to the rhythm of my heart creaking,
I wish I could give you one good news.
Just one good news.
