3am cigarettes.

local bullshit

I'd hope you'd at least know I'm not dead,
tonight I saw your mum pass by the graveyard,
she seemed old, really tired —
you don't pay any visits anymore I suppose.

you don't,

do you?

I'd know if you did. You'd always come to my backyard first, pick up the fresh lemons out of my favourite tree and make breakfast for yourself as if you live there,

Well, that tree is dead now.

No one has stepped in the house ever since you left,

It's all dust and white fabric covering the stuff.

Your mum gave me a small flower today,
she said it used to be our favourite,
it used to be our favourite.

I'd always put it inside my hair and you'd laugh your arse off, — they'd get lost in my curls and you'd pull my hair softly, — murmur how it smells like dust, flowers, smoke and my dad's shaving cream,

I wonder whether your hair still smells like cookies and fresh baked goods.

Do you still bake at your free time? Do you still dislike flour when it gets too messy in your kitchen?

I wouldn't know now, would I.

I wouldn't.

Fuck. Fuck you.

With hate,
Dominique